Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Shreve said, “Professor Arthur Chess.”

“You know him?”

“No, but perhaps I should- is he something on the order of your local Sherlock Holmes?”

“Not quite,” said Jeremy. “Just a venerated doctor with a curious mind.”

“You work with him.”

“At City Central Hospital.”

“I see. And Professor Chess spoke to you about our girls.”

“He sent me an old clipping of the case. We’d been talking about the origin of criminal violence. I suppose it struck him as an example.”

“Sent you?” said Shreve.

“He’s traveling.”

“Where to, sir?”

“Oslo.”

“Ah,” said Shreve. “Not the worst time of year for the upper regions, but not happy, either. They’d be getting a bit of daylight, that’s all.”

Like Langdon, Shreve spoke about Norway as if he’d been there.

“You know Oslo, Inspector?”

“As a tourist… this Professor Chess, would you say his curiosity is focused on any specific aspect of our case?”

“As I said, he’s interested in the genesis of violence,” said Jeremy. He switched to a bald lie: “The question also came up about a surgical quality to the murders.”

“Did it- Professor Chess had this question?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I couldn’t say, Inspector. He brought it up. Notated it on the clipping-’Dear Jeremy, do you suppose this could be surgical.’ ”

Ah, what a tangled web we weave.

“Hmm,” said Shreve. “A pathologist- do you suppose he was relating our poor girls to a case of his?”

“Not to my knowledge. He’s no longer a forensic pathologist.”

“But he was, at one time.”

“Years ago. Inspector, we barely spoke before he left. Then I got the clipping. Inspector Langdon’s name was in it, so I phoned him, out of curiosity. He referred me to you, and I did the same. I’ve probably overreacted- wasted your time. I’m sorry, sir.”

“From Oslo,” said Shreve, as if he hadn’t heard. “That’s where the card came from.”

“Yes. It bore a picture of the Vigeland Sculpture Gardens.”

“Aha… well, sir, as you know these cases remain open, so I’m afraid I can’t divulge any details. However, feel free to pass along the following to your professor: We continue to seek a solution, we’ve eliminated no one.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“As you wish, Doctor. Good talking to you.”

Both detectives had been to Norway, and now Arthur was there. Norway had piqued Shreve’s interest.

A northern link to killings in England? To killings, here?

Jeremy remembered the authorship of the first laser scalpel article. Eye doctors from Norway and Russia and England. Americans, in the second reprint.

He’d tossed both.

He logged onto the Ovid medical database, strained to recall the exact title of the Norwegian article, but couldn’t. Coming up with the date- seventeen years ago- helped somewhat, and he ended up winnowing through three dozen citations until he found the right one.

Seven authors. Three ophthalmologists from the Royal Medical College of Oslo, an equal number of Moscow-based eye surgeons on sabbatical in the Norwegian capital, and a British physicist who worked for the manufacturer of the laser.

No names that meant anything to him. He wrote them all on a card and filed it away. No real reason, except he was tired of retrieving lost information.

He spent the rest of the morning in Psychiatry Department meetings. Fatuous stuff, the usual suspects droning. He pretended to be awake, shrugged off the invitation by three other shrinks to have lunch, and returned to his office.

Detective Bob Doresh was waiting outside his door.

“Hello, Doctor.”

“Hello, Detective.”

“Can I come in?”

Jeremy shoved the door open and allowed Doresh’s beefy body to pass. Doresh wore a gray-blue raincoat and gave off a seawater odor. His size made the office seem even smaller than it was. He stood, dangling thick arms until Jeremy invited him to sit.

“So, Doc, how’ve things been going?”

“You’re here because of the woman at Saugatuck Finger,” said Jeremy. “Another Humpty-Dumpty situation?”

Doresh eyed Jeremy’s coffeemaker. The scorched swill Jeremy still brewed daily but rarely drank.

“It’s stale, but you’re welcome to some, Detective.”

“Thanks.” Doresh stretched for a mug, managed to fill it without getting up. He drank, grimaced, put the mug down. “As advertised, Doc. Ever been out to the Finger?”

“A few times,” said Jeremy. “I drive out there occasionally, during the summer.”

“Pretty place.”

“Not really. If you look closely, the filth in the water becomes obvious. I grew up miles from water, so I’m easy to please. Who was she?”

“Another one,” said Doresh.

“A streetwalker?”

The detective didn’t answer. Jeremy said, “And you’re here because…”

“Your last call to me- about the Mazursky woman- I could see you’re really interested in all of this. Seeing as my partner and I haven’t exactly racked up any big-time progress, I thought maybe I could tap into some of your insights.”

“Bravo.” Jeremy loosened his tie. “What a sterling line of bullshit.”

Doresh crossed his legs and dangled a thick ankle and looked injured.

Jeremy said, “For some unfathomable reason, you consider me a suspect in all this. If you want me to account for my whereabouts last night, all I can tell you is I was home, watching TV and sleeping. Alone. This time I didn’t have the foresight to call out for food, so there’s no delivery boy to verify my presence.”

“Doctor-”

“I know you follow protocol. Doctors do, too. Most of our cancer patients are treated by protocol. But we leave room for creativity, and so should you. Granted, those close to the victim always fall under scrutiny. So even though being put through the wringer on Jocelyn made a hellish experience even worse, I understand it. But by now- the other two killings? Prostitutes? That would make no sense, switching from a girlfriend to strangers. It doesn’t happen that way, does it?”

Doresh picked up the mug, stared into it, transferred it to his other hand. “Like you say, Doctor, there’s always room for creativity. Stick around long enough, and everything happens.” He cupped a knee with his free palm and sat forward. “The question you asked me, about surgical precision, where did that really come from?”

“As I told you-”

“My Humpty-Dumpty remark. Right.” Doresh smiled. Most of his teeth were white and even, but a single, corn yellow canine snaggled and caught on his upper lip. He curled the purplish tissue back, and the smile turned predatory. “ Now, who’s laying on the bullshit?”

“That’s all it was,” said Jeremy. “Humpty-Dumpty images. I wish you hadn’t told me.”

“Bothered you, did it?”

“I could’ve done with not knowing.”

“Overactive imagination, Doc?”

Jeremy didn’t answer.

Doresh said, “Must be helpful for all that hypnotizing you do. My wife tried that- being hypnotized. Wanted to lose weight, so her doctor sent her to some guy downtown.”

“Did it help?”

“Not one damn bit,” said Doresh. “No matter, I love her huge.” He put the mug down and used both hands to shape a wide hourglass. “You know what that’s like? Loving a woman so bad you don’t care what she looks like or does?”

Jeremy’s face went hot, then cold. He felt as if he were changing colors, chameleon-like- livid to pallid. Not blending in, just the opposite. Betraying his vulnerability.

Doresh was studying him. Serene.