Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“Shull’s been a bad boy?” said Petra.

“For a professor,” said Small, “being a bad boy could mean giving the wrong kid a bad grade. What do we really have on this guy except he likes art and had a nutty cousin?”

“A cousin who got strangled,” said Petra. “And was spotted at the scene of one of our 187s.”

Small tickled his own mustache. “So, what, we’re thinking two bad guys, now? Teacher and student? Like Buono and Bianchi, Bittaker and Norris, pair of lowlife scumbag psychopaths pulling a duo?”

“We’ve got a literal teacher and student,” said Petra. “Maybe they branched out of academia.” To Stahl: “You said Shull’s mommy has dough. That could explain Kevin’s financing.”

I said, “Shull’s influence could also explain the shift in Kevin’s writing style. Kevin started off simple, but Shull guided him toward greater complexity. I told Shull Kevin’s style had gotten pretentious. He laughed, and said, ‘Ouch.’ But maybe he wasn’t amused.”

Milo said, “He show any signs of weirdness, Alex?”

“Not really. Very self-possessed. But right from the beginning I’ve thought our guy wouldn’t come across strange. Someone who can move in and out of artistic venues without being conspicuous. Someone smart enough to plan.”

“Someone older than Kevin,” he said. “His age bugged you from the beginning.”

“Shull’s how old?” said Petra.

“Midthirties to forty.”

“Right in the zone.”

Schlesinger said, “Where’s the family money from?”

Stahl said, “The second husband.”

I said, “Some of it may have found its way to her sole living child. Any idea how Shull’s father and brother died?”

Stahl shook his head.

Petra said, “Good work, Eric.”

The merest flicker of emotion livened Stahl’s eyes. Then they went flat, again.

“Life’s like that,” said Marvin Small. “All of a sudden things change.”

“A philosopher,” said Schlesinger, with the good humor of a long-suffering spouse. “I wouldn’t mind some good change. For a change. You guys gonna learn more about this professor?”

Petra said, “Minute we’re out of here, I’ll run him through the data banks.”

Stahl said, “I don’t recommend interviewing his mommy.”

“Not a nice lady?” said Milo.

“Not someone I’d like to have a beer with.”

The first bit of humor I’d ever heard from him. But no comic inflection. Mechanical voice. The deadened tone of someone beaten down. Or maybe he just had a weird personality.

He placed the chart back in the white envelope and studied his empty plate.

Milo turned to me. “What’s the name of that department head?”

Alvard Gordon Shull had been run through the law enforcement files. No criminal record, but Guadalupe Santos, Kevin Drummond’s landlady, thought she recognized Shull from the DMV photo Petra showed her.

“Hmm… maybe.”

“Maybe what, ma’am?”

“Once I saw Yuri on the street talking to a guy. Could’ve been him.”

“Where on the street, Mrs. Santos?”

“Not far from here, like up on Melrose, couple of blocks that way.” Pointing east. “I figured Yuri had gone shopping or something.”

Petra shook her head as she recounted it to Milo and me. She never thought to mention this? “Ma’am, was he carrying a bag that indicated he’d been shopping?”

Santos thought. “It was a while ago- maybe.”

“But you think this was the man he was with?”

“I’m not sure… like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I’d have to say… months. Only reason I noticed was I never saw Yuri with anyone. But it’s not like they were hanging out or anything.”

“What were they doing?”

“Just talking. Like maybe the guy asked Yuri directions or something. Then Yuri walked home alone.”

“The man left on foot?”

“Um, I think so. But there’s no way I could testify or anything. I couldn’t honestly say I remember details, it’s more like maybe. Who is he?”

“Maybe no one. Thank you, ma’am.”

Santos closed her door, looking worried.

Shull lived in a house on Aspen Way, in the Hollywood Hills, and Stahl had been stationed down the block all night, with nothing to report.

“How far is Aspen,” I asked Milo, “from the Hollywood sign?”

“Right down the hill and east. Not far from Kevin, either.” He’d dropped by soon after the meeting, kept busy on the phone, finally sat down at my kitchen table to toss things around.

“Not far from the recording studio where China was recording,” I said. “Or the Snakepit. I’d say Shull likes his Hollywood comfort zone, but we’ve also got three murders on the Westside, not to mention Boston. This guy’s hard to pin down.”

“How do you see the affiliation between Shull and Kevin? Teacher-student thing gone evil?”

“That’s one possibility. I visit Shull, he gets nervous, tells Kevin to make himself scarce. Either or both of them pick up Erna and get rid of her, then Shull drives Kevin to the airport, ditches the car, takes a taxi back.”

“I’ll have my Ds check the cab companies.” He made another call, put in the order. “What’s the other possibility?”

“Terry Drummond’s right and her boy’s innocent.”

“If he is, he’s also probably dead.” He went to the fridge, poured milk, brought it back. “If Kevin did rabbit, I doubt it was to Boston. Shull’d be smart enough not to want Kevin there.”

I knew what he was thinking: How many other cities? How many other bodies?

His beeper went off. The coroner’s office. He called in, and I went to my office and ran A. Gordon Shull through all the general search engines.

A reference to Shull’s personal Web site connected to an inactive notice. Thirty-one additional hits, two-thirds of them duplications. Twelve of the original twenty were citations of Shull’s name in Charter College publications. Presiding over Communications Department symposia, papers he’d delivered.

The Role of the Artist in Contemporary Society

Advocacy Journalism: Acceptable Tool for Change or Subterfuge?

Rock ’n’ Roll Hoochy Coo: Sexuality As a Metaphor in Contemporary Music

Linguistics As Fate: Why Noam Chomsky Might Be God

One title grabbed me by the throat:

A Cold Heart: The Ultimate Fatalism of Artistic Endeavor

No text summary, no reference. Shull had delivered the paper at a coffeehouse in Venice. A late-night party honoring the memory of Ezra Pound.

I checked the venues of his other presentations. All were informal gatherings at cafés and the like. Padding the résumé. Was that why Dr. Martin disapproved of her faculty member? Or perhaps it went beyond that.

I recalled Shull’s easy manner with the coed who’d waited outside his office. Cool prof? Too-friendly slickster? Like politics, academia posed all sorts of possibilities for an amoral guy.

Venice Coffee Shop. What relevance did the concept of comfort zone have in L.A.? Here, if you had a car you mastered your destiny.

Then I thought of something else…

Milo returned. “The wounds on Mehrabian match Baby Boy’s. So do the ligament striations. And guess what: This time our bad boy left physical evidence. Couple of short facial hairs, red-gray. Mehrabian had a beard, too, but it was long and black. The killer got in his face. Literally.”

“Shull sports one of those five-day beards. Ginger-gray.”

“Hey, Sherlock, coroner estimates the hair was five, six days old.”

“So now what?” I said. “You question him and get a warrant to pluck?”