Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Was there a change in his grade pattern over time?”

Shull hesitated. “I might possibly recall a slight drop in effort toward the end of his stay here.”

“When?”

“The last couple of years.”

Right after Angelique Bernet’s murder. Sometime before he’d graduated, Kevin Drummond had conceived GrooveRat .

I said, “Are you aware that Kevin tried his hand at publishing?”

“Oh, that,” said Shull. “His zine .”

“You saw it?”

“He talked to me about it. In fact, it was the only time I ever saw him get animated.”

“He never showed you the zine?”

“He showed me some articles he’d written.” Shull’s smile was crooked, rueful. “He was needy for praise. I tried to comply.”

“But his writing wasn’t praiseworthy,” I said.

Shull shrugged. “He was a kid. He wrote like a kid.”

“Meaning?”

“Sophomoric- junioromoric, seniormoric. I get a steady diet of it. Which is fine. Any craft takes time to develop. The only difference between Kevin and hundreds of other kids is that he thought he was ready for the big time.”

“Did you let him know he wasn’t?”

“Lord, no,” said Shull. “Why would I shatter his confidence, a troubled kid like that? I knew the world would do that to him, all by itself.”

“A troubled kid,” I said.

“You’re telling me he’s involved in murder.” Shull returned to his chair. “I really don’t want to bad-mouth him. He was quiet, a little weird, a little delusional about his talent. That’s all. I don’t want to make him sound like a maniac. He wasn’t that different from other nerdy-types I’ve seen.”

He placed his elbows on the desk and looked at me earnestly. “There’s no way you could give me any details, is there? My old journalistic impulses are coming to the fore.”

“Sorry,” I said. “So you went from journalism to academia.”

“Academia has its charms,” said Shull.

“What else can you tell me about Kevin?”

“That’s really it. And I’ve got office hours in a few minutes.”

“I won’t take much more of your time, Professor. What else can you tell me about Kevin’s publishing dreams?”

Shull pulled on his chin. “Once he got on the publishing kick- his senior year- it was all he could talk about. Kids are like that.”

“Like what?”

“Obsessive. We accept them to college and call them adults but they’re really still adolescents, and adolescents obsess. Entire industries have been built on that fact.”

“What was Kevin obsessed with?”

“Success, I suppose.”

“Did he have a particular point of view?”

“With regard to what?”

“Art.”

“Art,” echoed Shull. “Once again, we’re talking adolescent attitudes. Kevin adhered to the seminal sophomoric belief.”

“What’s that?”

“Anticommercialism. If it sells, it sucks. Basic dorm-debate stuff.”

“He told you that.”

“More than once.”

“You feel differently?”

“My job is to nurture the little ducklings, not pepper them with the buckshot of criticism.”

“When Kevin showed you his articles, did you do any editing?”

“Not his articles. On papers I’d assigned, I suggested minor revisions.”

“How’d he take criticism?”

“Well.” Shull shook his knobby head. “Very well as a matter of fact. Sometimes he asked for more. I guess he looked up to me. I got the feeling he wasn’t getting much support anywhere else.”

“Are you aware Kevin wrote arts reviews for the Daily Bobcat .”

“Those,” said Shull. “He was quite proud of them.”

“He showed them to you.”

“Showed them off. I suppose he came to trust me. Which didn’t mean pizza-and-beer, anything outside of office hours. Kevin wasn’t that type of kid.”

“What type is that?”

“The kind you’d enjoy having a beer with.”

I said, “Did he tell you about his pen names?”

Shull’s eyebrows arced. “What pen names?”

“ ‘Faithful Scrivener,’ “ I said. “ ‘E. Murphy.’ He used them to write for his zine and other arts magazines.”

“Did he,” said Shull. “How curious. Why?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, Professor.”

“Enough with the title. Call me Gordie… pen names… you’re implying Kevin was concealing something?”

“Kevin’s motivations are still a mystery,” I said.

“Well, I wouldn’t know about any pen names.”

“You said his grades dropped over time. Did you notice any change in his writing style?”

“How so?”

“He seems to have gone from simple and direct to wordy and pretentious.”

“Ouch,” said Shull. “You’re the critic, not me.” He pulled down his tie, opened the collar of his plaid shirt. “Pretentious? No, on the contrary. The little I saw of Kevin’s development seemed to indicate improvement. A little more elegance. But I guess that would make sense. If you’re right about Kevin being disturbed. If his mind deteriorated, that would show up in his writing, wouldn’t it? Now, I’m sorry, but I do have an appointment.”

When we reached the door, he said, “I don’t know what it is you think Kevin did- probably don’t want to know. But I have to say I feel sorry for him.”

“Why’s that?”

Instead of answering, he opened the door and we stepped out into the hallway. A pretty Asian girl sat on the floor a few feet away. When she saw Shull she got to her feet and smiled.

He said, “Go in, Amy. Be with you in a sec.”

When the girl was gone, I said, “Why do you feel sorry for Kevin?”

“Sad kid,” he said. “Lousy writer. And now you’re telling me he’s a psycho killer. I’d say that qualifies for pitiable.”

I left the college, got on the 134 East and was headed back toward L.A. when my cell phone beeped.

Milo said, “Last couple hours, I could’ve used you. Grief counseling with Levitch’s mom. Vassily was a wonderful son, boy prodigy, total genius, apple of Mama’s eye, who in the world would want to hurt him. Then I got a prelim report from my Ds. Nothing turned up on the Bristol Street neighborhood canvass, and all the audience members they’ve talked to noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Ditto for the security guard and the parking valets. So whoever offed Vassily either blended in or slipped in unnoticed.”

“You said the audience was older. Wouldn’t a kid like Kevin Drummond stand out?”

“Maybe he went in disguise. Maybe he took a back-row seat in the darkness. Plus, you attend a piano recital, you’re not exactly looking for suspicious characters. There are still some personal checks from the nonmembers to go over. Get over to the college, yet?”

“I did. Kevin Drummond wrote a few arts reviews for the student paper, for the most part nothing illuminating. But during his senior year- shortly before he started GrooveRat - his style shifted suddenly. From straightforward prose to what we found in the SeldomScene pieces. Maybe he experienced some sort of psychological change at that time.”

“Going schizo?”

“Not if he’s our guy. These crimes are too organized for a schizophrenic. But a mood disorder- mania- would fit with the overheated prose and the delusions of grandeur. Which is how Drummond’s faculty advisor described his publishing plans. Mania can mean a loosening of boundaries- and inhibitions. And periodic departures from usual demeanor. The advisor describes Kevin as quiet, unassertive. He had no friends, was very serious, a mediocre student with high aspirations. Not fun to be around. All of which could be the depressive component of a bipolar disorder. Another thing that synchs with mania is the hoarding behavior his landlady described. The history of flitting from fad to fad may very well have been a precursor to a manic break. Mania’s not often associated with violence, but when it is, the violence can be serious.”