Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

The Punchline:

ROBERT'S IQ.

HORACE'S IQ.

KEITH'S IQ.

CHARLES'S IQ…

Some pages had accompanying artwork- Einstein's face was a favorite.

All with CLICK HERE TO SEE MY SCORE boxes.

Sharavi's clicks brought up graphs with little stars for Robert and Horace and Keith and Charles and…

All in the 170-plus range.

“Such smart people,” said Sharavi. “So much free time.”

“Weenie-land,” said Milo. “Send 'em applications to the Get a Life Club.”

Sharavi moved through several more pages with no success.

“The information age,” said Milo. “You spend lots of time doing this?”

“Less and less,” said Sharavi, hand continuing to move. “When the Internet began it was more valuable as an investigative tool. Professors talking to professors, scientific data, agencies communicating. Now, there's too much to wade through for the little you get. It seems to have become one big chat-room for lonely people.”

He turned and looked at me. “I suppose that serves a purpose, Doctor.”

“Keep going,” said Milo.

After two more hours of viewing, we had nothing.

“I assume you've already looked up DVLL,” I told Sharavi.

“That and all the hate groups who run bulletin boards. No progress, I'm afraid.”

“What about a different keyword,” I said. “Galton, sterilization, eugenics, euthanasia.”

He typed.

Sterilization brought up more references to food-safety than castration and most of the discussions of eugenics were glorified personal ads: “I hereby splay my DNA out on the platter of public scrutiny. Women desiring choice nucleic protein are cordially invited to apply.”

Sharavi printed it all out, anyway, page after page landing in the bin silently. From time to time Milo got up, removed sheets, scanned them, put them back.

At five-thirty, he said, “Enough. They obviously keep a low profile.”

“We could act rather than just react,” said Sharavi. “E-mailing something about Meta into some of the data banks and see what turns up.”

“Can you be sure your identity's totally protected?” said Milo.

“No. I change passwords and addresses regularly but you can never be sure.”

“Then, no, not yet. I don't want to alert anyone.”

“I already did that with my call to Mensa,” I said, describing the message I'd left.

Milo said, “No big deal,” but I could tell he was bothered and I felt like an amateur.

He turned to Sharavi. “Any other insights?”

“Ponsico's suicide. Despite the lack of evidence, it does sound irregular. Using poison, for starters. Poisoners tend to be women, right?”

“Ponsico was a scientist.”

“True,” said Sharavi. “Which leads me to another issue: As a scientist he'd know what to expect. Potassium chloride causes a quick death, but it's far from painless- sudden cardiac arrhythmia, a severe heart attack. When you execute criminals with it, you add sodium pentothal for pre-sedation and pancurium bromide to stop breathing. Couldn't Ponsico have chosen an easier death for himself?”

“Maybe he was punishing himself,” said Milo. “Thought he deserved cruel and unusual.”

“Guilt?” I said, thinking again of Nolan. “Over what?”

“Maybe he'd played a part in something really nasty. Our killings or something else. Or maybe he was just a guy with mood swings who ended up profoundly depressed in the lab and just happened to have access to poison. And even if he did make things rougher on himself than he had to, it was still relatively fast and clean. Helluva lot better than some of the stuff I've seen people do to themselves. Right, Superintendent?”

“Daniel,” said Sharavi. “Yes, that's true. Self-hatred can be an amazing thing. But… I guess I'd like to learn more about this young man.”

“I'll call his parents,” said Milo. “The professors in Princeton. Maybe some of his other coworkers at PlasmoDerm.”

“It's a biomedical company?”

“Skin research. Ponsico was working on improving the success of skin grafts. Why, you see some sort of work connection?”

“No,” said Sharavi. “Though I suppose if there was a dissatisfied customer- someone whose graft didn't take… but no, they would have poisoned the surgeon, not the researcher… no, I have no ideas.”

He drank tea and put the cup down. “I have good sources in New York. If Meta does exist, they'll be able to find out. We could also tap Zena Lambert's line-”

“Forget it. We've got no grounds for any kind of warrant, let alone a tap. On the off chance she's connected to anything, I don't want to screw up the evidentiary chain.”

“Good point.”

“Don't even think about it,” said Milo.

“Of course,” said Sharavi.

“I mean it.”

“I realize that.”

“The bookstore Zena works in,” I said. “Spasm. An offbeat name so maybe it's a meeting place for people with offbeat ideas. There could be a bulletin board, maybe with a posting by Meta.”

“No phone listing but they announce meetings at a store?” said Milo.

“An out-of-the-way store that attracts the target audience. Want me to drop in and look around?”

He rubbed his face. “Let me think about it- I want to get the most out of anything we do.”

Sharavi got up and stretched, raising both arms above his head, the bad hand dangling. “I'm getting more tea- are you sure you wouldn't like some? The mint's fresh. I found a big patch growing out in back.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

When he was gone, Milo scowled at the computer. “Garbage in, garbage out… So what's with the Arafat look, Alex- scratch that in view of present company- the porcupine look?”

“I rushed over to the library, didn't take the time to shave.”

“That's half a day's worth?”

I nodded.

“Taking those testosterone pills, again?”

I flexed a bicep and grunted and he gave a tired smile.

Sharavi came back with the tea. Scalding, slightly sweet, the mint flavor gliding above the heat.

As I sipped, I used one of the phones to call my service.

“Hi, Doctor, there's just one. A Loren Bukovsky, from… looks like Mensa. Though it says here he asked for Al. The girl- a new one- tried to tell him different but he insisted you were Al. You do get some strange ones, Dr. Delaware, but that's your business, right?”

“Right. What did Mr. Bukovsky have to say?”

“Let's see- sorry, this new one has terrible penmanship… it looks like he was… no, he has nothing to do with Mela, or Meta… something like that… anyway, he wants nothing to do with Mela or whatever… um, but if you have the… sorry, Doctor, this isn't very polite.”

“What does it say, Joyce?”

“If you have the poor taste to want to… looks like fraternatize with… idiots… go to a place called… looks like Spastic… but he doesn't leave an address… very strange, even for you, Dr. Delaware.”

“That's all of it?”

“He also said don't call back, he's not interested in you. How rude, huh?”

“Very,” I said. “But maybe he's got his reasons.”

“Strong opinions,” said Milo, writing down Bukovsky's name.

“And now it's out that we're looking into Meta. Sorry.”

“But at least we know the bookstore's worth looking into.” He turned to Sharavi. “How about using some of that illegal DMV access on Mr. Bukovsky and Ms. Lambert?”

Sharavi put his mug down and faced the computer.

Moments later:

“Loren A. Bukovsky, an address on Corinth Avenue, Los Angeles, 90064.”

“West Los Angeles,” said Milo. “Minutes from the station. Might as well pay him a visit.”

“When should I visit Spasm?” I said.