Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

Clippings about me.

My involvement in a mass child-abuse case years ago.

My consultation to a grade school terrorized by a sniper.

Accounts of court testimony in several murder cases.

My name highlighted in yellow.

Milo's, too.

I remembered the message he'd written about Milo's call: Detective Sturgis. Off the job Milo generally didn't identify himself by title.

Researching him, too?

Thick pile of clippings. On the bottom, a homicide trial. My testimony for the prosecution, debunking the phony insanity plea of a man who'd savaged a dozen women.

Moreland's notation in the margin: Perfect!

So I'd been selected for something other than "a fine combination of scholarliness and commonsense thinking."

Moreland, definitely worried about the cannibal killer.

Had he lured me here under false premises in order to pick my brain?

Dr. Detective. What did I have to offer?

Did he have reason to believe the murderer was still on Aruk?

A crash from inside the lab made me jump, and my hand brushed the clippings to the floor. I picked them up quickly and ran to the inner door.

Locked.

I knocked hard.

A groan from inside.

"Bill?"

Another groan.

"It's Alex. Are you all right?"

A few seconds later, the knob turned and Moreland stood there rubbing his forehead with one hand. The other was palm down, dripping blood. He looked stunned.

"Fell asleep," he said. Behind him, on the lab table, were brightly colored boxes, plastic cartons. Test tubes on the floor, reduced to jagged glass.

"Your hand, Bill."

He turned his hand palm up. Blood had pooled and was trickling down his wrist and narrowing to a single red line that wiggled the length of his scrawny forearm.

I led him to the sink and washed the wound. Clean gash, not deep enough to require stitching but still oozing steadily.

"Where's your first-aid kit?"

"Underneath." Pointing drowsily to a cabinet.

I applied antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

"Fell asleep," he repeated, shaking his head. The colored boxes contained dehydrated potatoes and wheat pilaf, precooked peas, lentils, rice mix.

"Nutritional research," said Moreland, as if he owed me an explanation.

His attention shifted to the broken glass and he bent.

I reached out to restrain him. "I'll take care of it."

"Working late," he said, weakly. He glanced at the bandaged hand, rubbed his mouth, licked his lips. "Usually I do some of my best work after dark. Got a late start, making sure those locks got installed correctly. I'm still mortified about what happened."

"Forget it."

"I must have left the lid off and the door unlocked. Inexcusable. Must remember to check every detail."

He began massaging his temples very rapidly.

"Headache?"

"Sleep deprivation," he said. "I should know better, at my age… Are you aware that most so-called civilizations are chronically sleep deprived? Before electricity, people lit a candle or two, then went to bed. The sun was their alarm clock; they were tuned to a natural cadence. Nine, ten hours of sleep a day. It's a rare civilized man who gets eight."

"Do the villagers sleep well?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's not much technology on the island. Lousy TV reception, less to keep them up."

"TV," he said, "is multiple-choice rubbish. However, if you miss it, I can arrange something."

"No, thanks, but I wouldn't mind a newspaper now and then. Just to stay in touch with the world."

"I'm sorry, son, can't help you there. We used to get papers more often when the Navy let us ship things on their supply planes, but now we depend upon the boats. Don't you find the radio news sufficient?"

"I noticed some American papers on your desk."

He blinked. "Those are old."

"Research?"

Our eyes locked. His were clear and alert now.

"Yes, I use a clipping service in Guam. If you'd like I can have them bulk-order some periodicals for you. And if you'd like to watch TV, I can get you a portable set."

"No, it's not necessary."

"You're sure?"

"Hundred percent."

"Please tell me if there's anything more you need by way of creature comforts. I want your stay to be enjoyable."

He ran his tongue under his right cheek and frowned. "Has it been- enjoyable? Excepting last night, of course."

"We're having a fine time."

"I hope so. One tries… to be a good host." He smiled and shrugged. "My apologies again about the hissers-"

"Let's really forget it, Bill."

"You're very gracious… I suppose I've been living here by myself so long that the niceties of social discourse elude me."

Staring at the floor again. Holding his bandaged hand with the other and getting that absent look in his eyes.

Then he snapped out of it, stood suddenly, and surveyed the lab. "Back to work."

"Don't you think you should rest?"

"No, no, I'm tip-top. By the way, what was it you came here for?"

What I'd come for were piercing questions about Samuel H. and radiation poisoning. Payoffs, half-truths, and subterfuge. What, if anything, his role had been forty years ago.

Now something else: why was my involvement in crime cases "perfect"?

I said, "Just wanted to know if there were any specific cases you wanted me to look over."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't presume. As I told you at the outset, you have total freedom."

"I wouldn't mind reviewing any other nuclear fallout cases you might have. Neuropsychological sequelae of radiation poisoning. I don't think anyone's studied it. It could be a great opportunity for us to produce a unique theoretical base."

His head retracted an inch and he put a hand on the counter. "Yes, it could."

He began arranging boxes of dried food, peering at ingredients, straightening a test tube rack. "Unfortunately, Samuel's is the only radiation chart I took with me. Til I came across it, I didn't know it was there. Or perhaps I left it there unconsciously. Wanting a reminder."

"Of what?"

"The terrible, terrible things people do under the guise of authority."

"Yes," I said, "authority can be horribly corrupting."

Short, hard nod. Another burdened look.

He stared at me, then turned away and held a test tube of brown liquid up to the light. His arm trembled.

"It would have been an interesting paper, Alex. Sorry I haven't any more data."

"Speaking of authority," I said, "I was at the Trading Post this morning and happened to catch the tail end of Hoffman's press conference in Guam."

"Really?" He inspected another tube.

"He was talking about his plan to develop Micronesia."

"He made his fortune building shopping centers, so I'm not surprised. That and so-called "managed forestry.' His father was a lumberjack, but he's responsible for more timber clearing than his father could have ever imagined."

"He has a reputation for being ecologically minded."

"There are ways."

"Of what?"

"Of getting one's way without fouling one's own nest. He chopped down rain forest in South America but supported national parks in Oregon and Idaho. So the ecology groups gave him an excellent rating. A fact he reminded me of last night. As if that excused it."

"Excused what?"

"What he's doing here."

"Letting Aruk die?"

He put down the test tube and glared at me. "A loss of vigor doesn't imply the terminal state."

"So you have hope for the island?"

His hands dropped to his sides again, skinny and rigid as ski poles. Blood had seeped under the bandage and crusted.

"I always have hope," he said, barely moving his lips. "Without hope, there's nothing."

He lit a Bunsen burner and I returned to my office. Why hadn't I been more forthright?