Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

“A dilettante,” I said. Shull had applied the term to Kevin Drummond.

“He’d have to work at being a dilettante,” said Martin. “Gordon is everything I despise about what passes for scholarship in contemporary academia. He fancies himself an avatar of pop culture. Oracle on the mount passing judgment on the creative world. No doubt because he sees himself as an artist but has failed miserably.”

Milo sat up. “How so?”

“Gordon fancies himself quite the Renaissance man. He paints horrid blotchy canvases- garden scenes purporting to be Impressionistic but at a level of competence most middle school children could surpass. Shortly after he came on, he brought several canvases to me, asked for a one-man show sponsored by the department.” She snorted. “I put him off and he went to the dean. Even Gordon’s connections couldn’t help with that.”

“Renaissance man,” said Milo. “What else?”

“He plays drums and guitar very poorly. I know that because he’s always talking about gigging or riffing, whatever. Last year he volunteered to play at a party Vernon and I threw for the honor students. This time, I was foolish enough to agree.” Her eyes rolled. “As if all that self-delusion wasn’t enough, he also claims to be working on a novel- some magnum opus in progress that he’s been touting since I’ve known him. I’ve never seen a page of manuscript.”

“Big talk, no walk,” said Milo.

“A real California guy,” said Martin. “Without family money, he’d be waiting tables and lying about his next big audition.”

“You said his attendance was spotty,” said Milo.

“He’s always off on some jaunt, financed by his stepfather.”

“What kind of jaunts?”

“Alleged research trips, symposia, conventions. In addition to his other pretensions, he sees himself as an adventurer, has been to Asia, Europe, you name it. It’s all part of that macho thing he has going on- plaid shirts with ties, hiking boots, the Arafat beard. He always claims to be working up some profound paper, but, again, he’s never produced.” She jabbed a finger. “In a sense, the world’s fortunate he never follows through. Because Gordon’s a horrid writer. Incoherent, puffed up, pompous.”

“Faithful Scrivener,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “You know about that?”

“Know about what?”

“Gordon likes to refer to himself in third person. Graces himself with a slew of obnoxious nicknames. The Gordster, The Intrepid Mr. Shull, Faithful Scrivener.” She bared her teeth. “He’s always been a joke . Unfortunately, he’s my personal sick joke. And now you’re telling me he killed someone… and our offices are footsteps away… that is unsettling. Am I in danger?”

“Not that I see, Professor,” said Milo.

“Who has he killed?”

“Artistic individuals.”

Martin’s eyes saucered. “More than one?”

“I’m afraid so, Professor.”

She sighed. “I’m definitely going to take some time off.”

“What can you tell us about Kevin Drummond?” said Milo.

“What I told Professor Delaware was true: I have no specific memory of the boy. After the visit, I took a closer look at his transcripts. Mediocre student, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You have no memory of his hanging out with Shull?”

“Sorry, no. Students come in and out of Gordon’s office. To a certain type, he’s appealing. I don’t recall Mr. Drummond, specifically.”

“What type of student finds him appealing?” said Milo.

“Gordon stays abreast of all the latest trends, and that impresses the easily impressed. I’m sure what he’d really like would be to host a show on MTV.”

I said, “Has Shull acted out sexually with students?”

“Probably,” she said.

“Probably?” said Milo. “Just like that?”

“There’ve been no complaints, but it certainly wouldn’t surprise me. Most of the students who take advantage of Gordon’s office hours seem to be female.”

“But there’ve been no actual sexual harassment complaints.”

“No,” said Martin. “Faculty-student sex is a fixture of college life and complaints are very rare. For the most part, it’s consensual. Isn’t that so, Professor Delaware?”

I nodded.

“Kevin Drummond’s gay,” said Milo. “Should we be looking at that?”

“You’re asking if Gordon’s bisexual?” said Martin. “Well, I haven’t picked up on that, but the truth is nothing you’d tell me about him would surprise me. He’s what used to be referred to as a scoundrel. Nice word, that. Too bad it’s fallen out of usage. He’s your prototypical spoiled brat, he bounces along, doing exactly what he pleases. Have you met his mother?”

“Not yet.”

Martin smiled. “You really should. Especially you, Professor Delaware. Right up your alley.”

“A font of psychopathology?” said Milo.

Martin regarded him with a long, amused look. “The woman’s devoid of basic courtesy and simple good sense. Every year at the endowment luncheon she corrals me and reminds me how much money her husband’s doled out, then she proceeds to lecture me about the wondrous accomplishments of her baby boy. Gordon comes by his pretentiousness honestly. She presents herself as so-ciety , but from what I’ve gathered, her first husband- Gordon’s real father- was a drunk. An unsuccessful real estate agent who spent time in prison for fraud. Both he and Gordon’s brother died in a house fire when Gordon was young and a few years later, the mother found herself a sugar daddy.”

Milo scrawled in his pad.

Martin said, “This has been educational, but I’m tired. If that’s all-”

“If you’ve got a writing sample from Shull, that would be helpful.”

“Back at my office,” she said. “I’ve got his latest end-of-year self-assessment. Every faculty member’s required to submit one- listing accomplishments, goals. Gordon’s is a formality because we both know he’s got life tenure.”

“Maybe not,” said Milo.

“What a lovely thought,” said Martin. “I’ll come in early tomorrow, messenger it to you first thing.”

She saw us to the door, and Milo thanked her.

“My pleasure,” she said. “Really… you know, now that I think about it, Gordon’s being a murderer doesn’t really surprise me all that much.”

“Why’s that, ma’am?”

“Someone that false, that shallow, could do anything .”

Petra was having a decent night.

The air was cool, the sky was a velvety purple-black where Hollywood neon didn’t bleach it gray, and A. Gordon Shull was well known at clubs and dives and alternative bookstores.

The recollections of a hungover barkeep at the Screw, a rancid thrash-metal cave on Vermont, were typical:

Yeah, I seen him. Wears black and tries to pick up young chicks.

Does he succeed?

Maybe, sometimes.

Any girl in particular?

They’re all the same.

What else can you tell me about him?

Just an old guy trying to be cool- y’know.

I know what?

It’s the way things go.

A whole different ball game than her futile attempts to find any links to Kevin Drummond. But something gave her pause: none of the sightings paired Shull with Kevin. Was the younger man even involved in the bad stuff?

Despite the IDs, her attempts to link Shull specifically to dope, violent tendencies, aberrant sex, or Erna Murphy were unsuccessful. By shift’s end, she realized it added up to very little they could use in the short term, and she felt her mood sinking. Then she got a little gift from God: During her first pass down Fountain Avenue, the Snake Pit had been closed-NO SHOW TONIGHT- but when she passed by on the way to the station, she spotted cars parked in front and a door left slightly ajar.