Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Anna said, “Ever since I’ve known him- I believe he’s always been single, Dr. Carrier. Confirmed bachelor and all that. A pity, wouldn’t you say? Such a nice man?”

Living single meant you could hop to the airport, charm the ticket agent, board, loosen your shoelaces, nibble salted nuts, down a martini with two pearl onions, and settle back for the long flight.

If Arthur was behind the interoffice envelopes, he’d sent Jeremy two articles on laser surgery and left the country shortly after posting an old clipping about a missing English girl and her murdered chum.

At least, Jeremy had assumed the story was old because of the dry, brown paper. What was the point? A crime-history lesson? Wanting Jeremy to ponder yet another example of very bad behavior?

Wanting to lead Jeremy somewhere…

If so, the old man was being maddeningly oblique.

Where was the clipping… Jeremy searched his desk, remembered he’d thrown it out. What was the murdered girl’s name… Suzie something, a surname beginning with C… he struggled to retrieve the memory, felt it evade him maddeningly, a sour aftertaste, lodged in the soft, spongy tissue behind his tongue…

But the other name came to him, unbidden.

The girl who had vanished- an unusual name- Sapsted- Bridget Sapsted.

He turned on his antiquated computer, endured the squawks of his temperamental modem (the hospital had converted to word processing years after every other health facility, still refused to install an integrated system), sat back, and counted the dots in his acoustical tile ceiling until he finally connected to the Internet.

He entered the missing girl’s name into a search engine, heard the computer hum and snore and flatulate- indatagestion.

Three hits, all from British tabloids.

The case wasn’t ancient at all; the acid-laced pulp paper had deteriorated quickly.

Six years ago: As the clipping had stated, Bridget Sapsted had gone missing.

Two years later, Bridget Sapsted had been found, dead.

The young woman’s skeletonized remains had been buried shallowly, in a densely wooded area, less than a quarter mile from those of her “chum” Suzie Clevington . Found three weeks after Suzie. Nothing left but bones; the coroner estimated that Bridget Sapsted had been interred for the full two years before being sniffed out by dogs.

“Finding Suzie helped narrow the search,” said Det Insp Nigel Langdon. “We are now considering both young ladies the victims of the same killer. For evidentiary reasons we are unable to divulge an explanation for that assumption at the present time.”

Jeremy plugged the policeman into several data banks. Only one hit for any Nigel Langdon , and it had nothing to do with police work: Last year, a man by that name had delivered a lecture on the cultivation of peonies to the Millicent Haverford Memorial Garden Club. Kent.

Same district, had to be the same guy. Perhaps the Det Insp had also retired, chosen quieter pursuits.

Jeremy phoned overseas information, was stalled by several false starts, finally connected to the right English operator and obtained a listed number for a Nigel Langdon in Broadstairs.

Where the murdered girls had gone to school.

The time difference made it evening in England, but still early enough for a polite call.

He punched in the number, listened to the overseas squawk, was momentarily stunned when a cheerful woman’s voice chirped, “Hallo, who is it then?”

“Is Mr. Langdon there, please?”

“Watching the telly. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Dr. Carrier, from the United States.”

“The States- you’re joking.”

“Not at all. Is this Mrs. Langdon?”

“Last I checked. No joke? What, then? What kind of an American doctor are you?”

“A psychologist,” said Jeremy. “I’m a friend of Dr. Arthur Chess.”

“Are you now?” said the woman. “I’m sure that’s good for him , whoever he is. So you think Nige needs a head-shrink?”

“Nothing like that, Mrs. Langdon. Dr. Arthur Chess- Professor Chess is a renowned pathologist, with an interest in one of Mr. Langdon’s cases- we are talking about Detective Inspector Nigel Langdon?”

“Re tired inspector… Nigey’s well past all that ugly business- it’s the murdered girls, right? Has to be that.”

“As a matter of fact, yes-”

“Aha! So who’s the detective in this family!” The woman laughed.

“How did you know?” said Jeremy.

“Because it’s the only case Nige’s been involved with any psychologist would be interested in. Had to be a crazy man, it did- but I shouldn’t say more. Indiscreet, and all that. What do you and your professor friend want with Nigey?”

“I’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

“You and everyone else.”

“There’s been recent curiosity about the case?”

“Not recent. But after it happened- when they found the second one, Bridget- you couldn’t keep this phone cold.” Silence on the line. The woman said, “Thank goodness, all that’s passed. So you want to talk to him, eh?”

“I would appreciate it. Just for a-”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Lately he’s been complaining about boredom. Nige! ”

The man’s voice was clogged- as if he’d stuffed his mouth full of eggs.

“What’s this?” he demanded. “Something about Suzie and Bridget? Who are you? What’s this about ?”

Jeremy spun a web about Arthur’s forensic skills, erudite discussions between the two of them concerning important cases, the old man asking Jeremy to do psychosocial follow-up on cases he believed were yet unresolved.

“Well, this is certainly bugger-all unresolved,” grumbled Nigel Langdon. “Never closed it. Surprised me at every turn. What with two bodies, I thought there’d be more. One of those serial things, you know? But that was it, two. Bastard ravaged those poor girls and just stopped. One of them had a boyfriend, a bad lot, served some time in Broadmoor for assault, I was certain he’d be the one. But he had an alibi. Locked up in Broadmoor- that’s about as good as it gets, wouldn’t you say? Other than him, nothing. Now, good night-”

“Ravaged,” said Jeremy. “Was there sexual assault?”

“I was speaking… dramatically, sir. Why should I tell you ? It’s a bit impertinent-”

“One more question, Inspector Langdon. Please. Was there evidence of surgical precision to the murders?”

Silence.

“What,” said Langdon, “are you really asking?”

“Just that. Were the bodies dissected with… notable skill? Something that implied medical expertise?”

“Where’d you say you were from, lad?”

“City Central Hospital.” Jeremy rattled off the address, told Langdon he’d be happy to give his number and Langdon could call to verify.

Langdon broke in: “Why all this curiosity from City Central Hospital, sir?”

“Just what I said, Inspector. Intellectual curiosity. And a deep concern on Professor Chess’s part- and mine- about psychosocial issues. The origins of violence.”

“Have a case like it over there, do you?”

Jeremy hesitated.

Langdon said, “I give all the answers, and you go dumb?”

“It’s possible, Inspector. Nothing decisive. Professor Chess is a pathologist, worked at the Coroner’s Office, here. He and I review cases- you’ve never heard of Professor Chess?”

“Chess… as in the game?”

“Exactly.”

“No, can’t say as I have.”

“He’s world-renowned,” said Jeremy. “Currently, he’s traveling in Oslo.”

“Too bad for him,” said Langdon. “As an overgrown fishing village it’s not half-bad. But those blokes. Sardines and oil is all they’re about. Which makes sense, har. Used to eating their fishies oily and got themselves bloody rich on oil, the Norsers. Worse than the Arabs. All that money, and they can’t bring themselves to install indoor plumbing in their summer homes, still walk around with rucksacks. Does that make sense to you- rich men eschewing indoor plumbing?”