Jonathan Kellerman - Monster

"Where does that lead?" said Milo.

"Nowhere."

"Thought there was only one building."

"These aren't buildings, they're annexes," said Dollard, smiling. He hurried us past A. Double-locked door, plastic windows. Darkness on the other side of the panes, no signs of habitation. Outside were a few plastic picnic benches and a cement patio swept clean. The silence was punctured by occasional shouts from the main yard. No birdsongs, no insect chitters, not even the faintest stutter of traffic.

Annex B was empty, too. I sensed something behind me, glanced over my shoulder. The main building, shielded from the morning sun, had darkened to charcoal.

Then the illusion of movement danced in a corner of my right eye, and my head buzzed, seized by split-second vertigo that passed just as quickly.

I looked back without stopping. Nothing. But for that brief interval, the entire structure had seemed to tilt forward, as if straining on its foundation. Now it was immobile as a building had to be, rows of windows dull and black, blank as a series of empty scorecards.

Dollard hurried to Annex C, stopped at the door, nodded at the pair of techs standing guard. Two black men. No Wark. They checked us out before stepping back. Dollard used his key, opened the door wide, peeked in, let the steel-reinforced panel swing back in Milo's face as he charged in.

"Morning, gentlemen," Dollard repeated.

None of the men returned the greeting. He said, "Let's do the pledge," and began reciting. No one stood. Dollard's tone was bored. Chet and Grandpa and the lean black man joined in.

"Hey, all you patriots," said Dollard when it was over.

"Born in the U.S.A.," said Chet. To us: "Top of the morning to ya morning becomes Elektra electrified all those ions ioning boards gotta keep everything smooth, pressed, even the French cuffs, fisticuffs cuffing up Rodney King yo bro."

The lean black man angled his head toward Chet and shook it disgustedly. No one else seemed to pay attention to the giant's ramblings, though the old man's hands were shaking more conspicuously.

"Okay," said Dollard, perching on the edge of the oak desk. "It's been a while since you guys got together because Dr. Argent no longer works here but-"

"Fuck her," said the sweating Hispanic. "Fuck her in the ass."

"Paz," said Dollard in a tight voice. "Keep it clean."

"Fuck her," said Paz. "Giving us her pretty-face attention and then cutting out on us."

"Paz, I explained to you that she didn't quit, she was-"

"Fuck her," Paz insisted. Sweat dripped from his chin. He appeared on the verge of tears. "Fucking fucked up, man… no fair." He looked at his classmates. None of them paid attention.

"Fuck her," he said weakly. "Can't motherfucking treat people like that."

"Fuck you," said Chet, cheerfully. "Fuck everyone everything the old Kama Sutra pretzel bake about time we had some fun around here oral love oral roberts oral hygiene."

"Fuck her," said Paz sadly. He closed his eyes. His chest vibrated with every exhalation. The vibrations slowed. Within seconds, he appeared to be sleeping.

"Nighty-night," Chet said. "Fuck everyone equality for all rights and responsibilities and participatory democracy with liberty under God livery too riding a pale horse-"

"Enough," said the lean black man. Weary voice, but clear, calm, almost parental.

"Good point, Jackson," said Dollard. To Chet: "Enough, big man."

Chet remained cheerful. His yellow beard was littered with crumbs and his eyes were bloodshot. He gave a throaty, equine laugh. "Enough is too much enough is never enough unless which is a paradox so enough can be anything depending on the dimension of-"

"Hey, man," said Jackson, sitting up straighter, "we all know you went to school, you're a genius, but hey. Okay?" Baring his teeth at Chet.

Chet said, "I'm no genius I'm the genus and the species and the-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, the mama, the son, and the Holy Roller Ghost," said Jackson. "Hey, okay. Chill out, okay?" His grin was pantherish.

Chet said, "Hey hey hey bro muhfuh you know whu hey hey hey I be okay you be-"

Jackson moved forward in his chair.

"Chet," said Dollard.

"Chet," said Jackson.

"Chet," giggled Chet. Slapping his desk, he reached down, bared his ruined leg, ran his hand along the pole of skin-sheathed bone.

Dollard said, "Cover that up."

Jackson had disengaged, was staring at the ceiling. Kindly Grandpa twiddled his thumbs and smiled sweetly.

Paz let out a loud belching snore.

Chet continued to finger-walk up and down his own leg. A smile spread slowly, bristling the yellow beard.

Another snore from Paz.

"Cover it," said Dollard.

Chet laughed and complied.

The heavy, freckled black man's head lolled; he seemed to be sleeping, too. Grandpa caught my eye and favored me with a smile. His cheeks were fresh apples. The comb tracks in his hair were drafting-table precise.

The only one who hadn't moved was the pale, thin man in the stocking cap. His fists remained glued to his temples.

Dollard said, "Gentlemen, these guys are from the po-lice. And speaking of Dr. Argent, they want to ask you some questions about her."

Only Grandpa and Chet observed Milo's walk to the desk. Dollard remained in place for a moment, as if unwilling to cede ground; then he stepped aside.

"Po-lice," said Chet. "Good man gendarme right to bear two arms got to guard society from the dregs and the dross and the eggs and the boss born in the U.S.A.! I was po-lice myself po-lite Poe Edgar Allan lite trained with Special Forces me and Chuck Yeager and Annabel Lee and Bobby McGee-"

"Good," said Milo. "We need all the help we can get. About Dr. Argent-"

A harsh whisper cut through the introduction: "The Jews did it."

Stocking Cap. He hadn't moved. His face had all the life of bleached driftwood.

"Got a point, there," said Chet. "Karl Marx violent overthrow all those other Semites semiotics antibiotics no that was Fleming no Jew a Scot-"

"The Jews did it," Stocking Cap repeated.

Dollard said, "Enough of that, Randall."

Chet said, "Maybe valid Jack the Ripper writing on the wall the Jews are the men who didn't not do it or somesuch doubletriplenegative which in the alternate universe parallel systems parallelograms dodecahedrons you never know any-thing's possible-"

"RandalFs a racist asshole," said Jackson. "He don't know shit and neither do you." He showed teeth again, began picking at his cuticles.

Dollard glared at us. Look what you ve done.

"Randall's a racist motherfucker," said Jackson matter-of-factly.

Randall didn't react. Paz and the freckled black man remained asleep.

"One more word out of you, Jackson," said Dollard, "and it's S &R."

Jackson fidgeted wildly for several seconds, but he kept silent.

Dollard turned to Milo: "Finish up."

Milo looked at me. I moved next to him. "So, Dr. Argent was working with you guys."

Kindly Grandpa said, "Would you be so kind as to inform us exactly what exactly happened to the poor woman?"

Dollard said, "We've already been through that, Holtzmann."

"I realize that, Mr. Dollard," said Holtzmann. "She was murdered. How tragic. But perhaps if we knew the details we could assist these police officers."

Gentle voice. Twinkly blue eyes. Coherent. What had gotten him in here?

"I gave you all the details you need to know," said Dollard.

Paz's eyes opened. And closed. Someone passed wind and the stink floated through the room, then dissipated.

Randall's head raised an inch. His fists began grinding into his skull. The stocking cap was filthy. The hand slipped down a bit and I saw that the skin around his temples was red and raw, scabbed in places.

I said, "If there's anything-"