Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

Martin rubbed her hands together. A silver-framed photo on the mantel showed her in a formal red gown, next to a tuxedoed, gray-haired man ten years older. Another shot pictured her in casual clothes, with the same man. Behind them, gold-and-rust tile-roofed buildings in the background. A diagonal stretch of teal canal, the curve of a gondola prow. Venice.

She said, “Whatever the contingencies, I can’t go along with this.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But if there’s something I should know- that the police should know- and you do eventually find a way of helping, it will make a lot of people’s lives easier.”

She picked a gold pen from a leather box and drummed the desk. “I can tell you this: I can’t recall Kevin Drummond posing any problems for the department. There was nothing… homicidal about him at all.” The pen tapped her in-box. “Really, Professor Delaware, this all sounds quite outlandish.”

“Did you teach Kevin, personally?”

“When did he graduate?”

“Two years ago.”

“Then I’d have to say yes. Two years ago, I was still teaching my mass-media seminar, and every Communications major was required to take it.”

“But you have no specific recollection of teaching him?”

“It’s a popular class,” she said, without hubris. “Communications is an arm of Charter’s Humanities Nexus. Our students take core classes in other departments and vice versa.”

“I assume Kevin Drummond had a faculty advisor.”

“I wasn’t his advisor. I work with the honor students.”

“Kevin wasn’t an honor student.”

“If he was, I’d have a specific recollection.” She began typing on the laptop.

Dismissed.

Stepping down the hall to seek out Professors Santorini and Shull was unlikely to escape her scrutiny. I’d find some other way to contact her colleagues. Or have Milo do it.

I’d gotten up when she said, “His advisor was Gordon Shull. Which is lucky for you, because Professor Susan Santorini’s doing research in France.”

Astonished by the sudden turn, I said, “May I talk to Professor Shull?”

“Be my guest,” she said. “If he’s in. His office is two doors to the left.”

Outside in the mahogany corridor, several students lounged. Down a ways, near Romance Languages. No one congregating at Communications.

A. Gordon Shull’s office door was locked, and my knock was answered by silence. I was writing a note when a hearty voice said, “Can I help you?”

A man wearing a backpack had just come up the rear staircase. Midthirties, six feet tall, well-built, he had ginger hair buzzed to the skull and an angular, heavy-browed, wind-toughened face. He wore a red-and-black plaid shirt, black tie, black jeans, brown hiking boots. The backpack was Army green. Pale blue eyes, craggy features, five day stubble-beard; handsome in a coarse way. A National Geographic photographer, or a naturalist adept at obtaining grants to study rare species.

“Professor Shull?”

“I’m Gordie Shull. What’s up?”

I repeated the spiel I’d given Elizabeth Martin.

A. Gordon Shull said, “Kevin? It’s been what… a couple of years. What’s the problem?”

“There may be none. His name came up in an investigation.”

“What kind of investigation?”

“Homicide.”

Shull stepped back, loosened the pack, scratched his big chin. “You’re kidding. Kevin?” He flexed his shoulders. “This is mind-blowing.”

“When Kevin was your student did he pose any problems?”

“Problems?”

“Disciplinary problems.”

“No. He was a little… how can I put this… eccentric?”

He pulled a large chrome key ring out of his jeans and unlocked the door. “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you. Privacy… and all that. But homicide… I guess I should check this out with my boss before we go further.” His eyes traveled down the hall to Elizabeth Martin’s office.

“Professor Martin directed me to you. She’s the one who told me you were Kevin Drummond’s advisor.”

“Did she? Hmm… well, then okay… I guess.”

His office was a third the size of the boss’s, mocha-walled and gloomy-dark until he raised the blind on a single narrow window. The panes were blocked by a massive, knobby tree trunk, and it took Shull’s flicking the lights on to brighten the room.

Faculty status was clearly demarcated at Charter College. Shull’s desk and bookshelves were almost-wood Danish modern, his side chairs gray-painted metal. No California impressionism, here, just two posters for contemporary art exhibitions in New York and Chicago.

Two black-framed diplomas hung askew behind the desk. A bachelors’ degree fifteen years ago from Charter College and a masters’ four years later from the University of Washington.

Shull tossed his backpack in a corner and sat down. “Kevin Drummond… wow.”

“In what way was he eccentric?”

He swung his feet atop his desk and placed his hands behind his head. His basic-training hairdo revealed a large knobby skull beneath the ginger stubble. “You’re not actually saying the kid’s a murderer?”

“Not at all. Just that his name came up during an investigation.”

“How?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

Shull grinned. “No fair.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“You’re a psychologist? They sent you because someone thinks Kevin’s psychologically disturbed?”

“Sometimes the police feel I’m right for a specific task.”

“Incredible… for some reason your name’s familiar.”

I smiled. He smiled back. “Okay, Kevin Drummond’s eccentricity… for starts, he kept to himself- at least from what I saw. No friends, no campus involvement. But not a scary kid. Quiet. Thoughtful. Medium-bright, not too socially adept.”

“How much contact did you have with him?”

“We met from time to time for curriculum guidance, that kind of thing. He seemed to be drifting… seemed not to be enjoying the college experience. Which is nothing unusual, lots of kids get down.”

“Depressed?” I said.

“You’re the psychologist,” said Shull. “But yes, I’d have to say so. Now that I think about it, I never saw him smile. I tried to draw him out. He wasn’t much for casual conversation.”

“Intense.”

Shull nodded. “Definitely intense. Serious kid, no sense of humor that I ever noticed.”

“What were his interests?”

“Hmm,” said Shull. “I’d have to say pop culture. Which would describe half our students. They’re products of their upbringing.”

“What do you mean?”

“The zeitgeist,” said Shull. “If your parents were anything like mine, you got some grounding in books, theater, art. Today’s undergrads are likely to grow up in homes where episodic TV’s the entertainment of choice. It’s a little tough getting them jazzed about quality.”

My childhood had been grounded in silence and gin. I said, “What aspects of pop culture interested Kevin?”

“All of it. Music, art. In that sense, he fit the department perfectly. Elizabeth Martin dictates that we take a holistic approach. Art as a general rubric, the interface of the art world with other aspects of the culture.”

“Medium-bright,” I said.

“Don’t ask me to tell you his grades. That’s a definite no-no.”

“How about a ballpark appraisal?”

Shull turned toward the tree-filled window, rubbed his head, loosened his tie. “We’ve moved onto touchy ground, my friend. The college is adamant about protecting grade confidentiality.”

“Would it be fair to call him a mediocre student?”

Shull laughed very softly. “Okay, let’s go with that.”