Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“A moody boy,” I said.

“Quaint,” she said. “But he's English. Maybe it was too soon after and they didn't want to hear about foul play. I guess I was insensitive.”

I'd read Ponsico's file this morning. Both parents had been interviewed over the phone by Petra Connor. Both had been grief-stricken, saying only that Malcolm had never done anything “unexpected” before but that he had been subject to mood swings since adolescence and, at age fifteen, had been treated for a year by a psychiatrist for sleep disturbance and depression.

Things he'd never told Sally.

“Did anyone else from PlasmoDerm belong to Meta?” said Milo.

“No one I know about. Why?”

“You suspect Zena. We're trying to learn more about her.”

“Well, that's all I know- would you like to see a picture of Malcolm?”

Before we could answer she produced a color snapshot from her handbag.

She and a tall young red-haired man in a rose garden. She wore a sundress, a big straw hat, and sunglasses and stood with her arm around Malcolm Ponsico's waist. He was well over six feet, narrow-shouldered, slightly overweight. The red hair was curly and thinning and he wore a ginger Abe Lincoln beard with no mustache. He had on a red polo shirt and brown slacks and had the loose-muscled stance of someone with no use for mirrors. She was grinning. His expression was noncommittal.

“We took this at the Huntington Library. An exhibit on Thomas Jefferson's scientific letters.”

Milo gave her back the picture. “Those letters on Malcolm's computer screen- DVLL. Mean anything to you?”

“Probably some devil reference that she put there. That's exactly the kind of thing she would have gone for.”

“She was into satanism, too?”

“It wouldn't surprise me- the salient point here is she stole him and got him involved in who-knows-what and soon after he was dead. I'm not a paranoid person, gentlemen, but the facts speak for themselves. Ask anyone who knows me, my reputation is for being dependable, level-headed, rational.”

Her fingers twisted around one another. “Perhaps that's the problem- I was too rational. Perhaps, if I'd yelled and kicked and put up a fuss when she went for him instead of standing back and assuming Malcolm would come to his senses, he would have understood how I really felt about him. Perhaps if I'd emoted, he'd still be alive.”

She thanked us for listening, put her lab coat on, and left the restaurant.

“Woman scorned,” said Milo. “And Ponsico had mood problems, even his parents didn't doubt the suicide. Without DVLL and that Meta article you found, I wouldn't spend another second on it.”

“Some pattern we've got,” I said. “Retarded kids and a genius with no sympathy for the genetically impaired. The only link I can see to our murders is Ponsico learned something at Meta that made him a threat. The killer chitchatting too explicitly about his plans, and Ponsico's contempt for the unfortunate didn't extend to homicide.”

“Dr. Sally's convinced this Zena was the killer but Zena's tiny and that part about her surprising Ponsico from behind is nonsense. The wound would have hurt but a big guy like that could have fought her off easily. So if he was murdered it was by someone strong. Just like our kids.”

“What about Zena and someone else?”

“A killing team… why not, we're entertaining all kinds of fantasies, but the only strike against this girl is the other girl hates her guts. Somewhere down the line, though, she may turn out useful.”

“As an entrÉe to Meta.”

He nodded. “Meantime, let's see what our Israeli friend has to offer.”

In the daylight, Sharavi's house was shabby. When he came to the door he was close-shaved and neatly dressed. Cup of tea in his hand. Mint sprig floating on top. I became aware of my own stubbled face.

He looked out at the street and let us in. The tea gave off steam.

“May I offer you some?”

Milo said, “No, thanks. Hope your computer's working.”

We walked to the back room. The PC was on, a screen-saving pink hexagon dancing on the black screen. Sharavi had arranged two folding chairs in the middle of the carpet. The velvet bag for his prayer equipment was gone.

Milo showed him the article about Farley Sanger's Meta editorial and told him about Malcolm Ponsico.

He pulled up to the workstation and began punching keys, using a one-handed hunt-and-peck that was faster than I would have believed.

The bad hand rested on his lap, an inert hunk of flesh.

I watched data bank after data bank flash and disappear.

After a while, he said, “If this group has done something criminal, none of the major agencies knows about it. I'll check academic bases.”

The keyword Meta brought up hundreds of irrelevant topics from university data stations: meta-analysis in philosophy, scores of chemical compounds, references to metabolism, metallurgy, metamorphosis.

When we'd waded through all of it, he said, “Let's try the Internet. It's become an international trash can, but who knows.”

“Let's try the phone first,” said Milo. “New York Information for Meta.”

Sharavi smiled. “Good point.” He dialed 212 Information, waited, hung up. “No listing.”

“Maybe,” I said, “the publicity about Sanger's article drove them out of business.”

“Could be,” said Sharavi. “Though hate's a hot commodity. It could also drum up more business. Shall I try the Internet, now?”

Using a coded password, he hooked into an on-line network I'd never heard of. No cute graphics or chat lines, just stark black letters on white screen.

Several seconds passed and he sat there without moving or blinking.

WELCOME R. VAN RIJN flashed.

Rembrandt's surname. Had the Israeli police assigned him the moniker or did he fancy himself an artist?

A brown hand flew nimbly over the keyboard and within seconds he was web-crawling.

Another flood of unrelated topics: an entomologist in Paris doing research on a larva called metacercaria, a holistic healer in Oakland promising to cure aches of the metacarpal bones.

Twenty minutes later, he stopped.

“Suggestions?”

“Try Mensa,” said Milo. “Meta's an imitator, meaning there's probably some hostility between the groups. Maybe some Mensa faithful wants to express feelings.”

Sharavi swiveled around, attacking the keyboard.

“Plenty on Mensa,” he said.

We watched him scroll slowly through page after page. Times and places for Mensa meetings around the world, Mensa-related topics.

A similar organization in London calling itself Limey Scumdogs discussing its favorite things. Members with nicknames- the Sharp Kidd, Sugar Baby, Buffalo Bob- listing “bad puns,” “strong coffee and dialectics,” “debates from hell,” “cuddles and housebroken Afghan hounds.” And so on.

Some of the notations were in foreign languages and Sharavi seemed to be reading them.

“What was that?” said Milo, pointing, as Sharavi skipped one.

“Dublin Mensa. Probably Gaelic.”

More scrolling.

A real-estate broker in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, advertising his services and listing Mensa membership as a job qualification.

Same for a personnel manager in Chicago, a dental hygienist in Orlando, Florida, an engineer in Tokyo, dozens more.

Unemployment hadn't spared the top of the bell curve.

Next came an IQ MEASUREMENT section. Several writers, all men, displaying questions from intelligence scales- quickie tests, the type featured in know-your-IQ-paperbacks. Most selections were followed by variations of the assertion that “this is an extremely rigorous set of questions constructed to show a stratospherically high level of intelligence.”