Parker 02 - The Guilty (13 page)

If I didn't know any better, the
Dispatch
was suggesting that

the magazine industry was better off with Jeffrey Lourdes dead.

At the same time, I knew I was on to something, that there

was an even bigger story surrounding the deaths of Athena

Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. I needed to find out

why someone had murdered a famous socialite and a publishing magnate, and tried to assassinate a government official

mere days apart, and why the killer seemed to be using weaponry and ammunition completely impractical for someone who

was smart enough to carry the murders to their grim conclusion.

I'd spent all night poring over the details given by

Lourdes's assistant regarding the gun she saw, the man she

saw wielding it, as well as the info Curt Sheffield gave me

about the ammunition caliber. At eleven-thirty I'd left a

message for Professor Agnes Trimble. I name-dropped

Amanda, her former student, said I needed to talk to her about

an important story. She called me back within fifteen minutes.

"I don't have much of a nightlife," she'd said. If what

Amanda said was true, and she collected firearms, I wasn't

totally surprised. But could a college professor help paint a

clearer picture of a murder suspect?

I squinted as we walked toward the subway. Agnes was expecting us at eight-thirty sharp. Not much of a nightlife, didn't

care much about sleeping in. No wonder Amanda liked her

so much.

"So you're sure Trimble isn't just someone who has a

strange gun fetish," I said. "You really think she can help?"

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Jason Pinter

"No, I just like spending my free time with old teachers,"

Amanda offered. "Trust me, if this thing has a trigger, she can

help. Not that you learned anything at whatever that school

was."

Guess it was that simple.

We took the 4 train down to West Fourth street and headed

toward the NYU College of Arts and Sciences, located in

downtown Manhattan by Washington Square South.

"You know, I did go to a pretty good college," I said.

"According to who, U.S. News and World Reports? Please.

They know as much about academia as I know about horticulture. Most Ivy Leaguers are the kind of students who work

twenty hours a day to make a three-point-eight, then get hit

by a bus on your first day of work because you don't have

enough common sense to know that red means 'stop.'"

"I've never been hit by a bus," I replied.

"Right. You just got shot."

She had me there.

Amanda had taken a class with Trimble, Professor of the

Humanities, Professor of nineteenth-century American Cultural History, during her junior year. She claimed Trimble was

brilliant, slightly loony, but if you wanted to know anything

that took place between Maine and California between eighteen hundred and nineteen hundred, you could be sure it was

rattling around in her brain.

Hopefully we could jar something loose, because aside

from my employer losing ground to the print princess of

darkness, three people had been killed and a murderer was

still on the loose.

I'll let them know what bad means.

It was early May, and Trimble had just finished up finals

week. According to Amanda, she was spending her final days

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111

in the city packing up the office before heading off to Malibu

for the summer. I wanted to ask more about this Malibu trip,

but Amanda shushed me.

"Better you don't know," she said. "Let's just say her favorite movie is
Point Break.
"

I hadn't been back to NYU since several people had

wanted me for murder. That coincided with how I met

Amanda. Needless to say, the school held some memories for

me. Traded pain for pleasure, took a bullet in the leg in

exchange for a lover at night. Fair deal, but if the bullet had

been a few inches higher I wouldn't be thinking that.

The NYU College of Arts and Sciences had a storied

history, and what was now known as the Brown Building was

formerly known as the Asch Building. The Asch Building was

the site of the infamous Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. The

blaze, which occurred on March 25th, 1911, began on the

eighth floor and quickly spread. Due to cramped working

conditions and a lack of exits (including one that had been

locked ostensibly to prevent workers from stealing), the fire

killed a hundred and forty-six workers before it was put out.

It was purchased by real estate magnate Fredrick Brown,

who donated it to the University where it became the Brown

Building of Science. I didn't want to ask Amanda about it,

but I don't know how I would have felt taking classes in a

building where nearly a hundred and fifty people had died.

"Ah, home sweet home." Amanda sighed as we entered the

CAS building. Despite the fact that summer was nearing and

most sane students would have fled the campus weeks ago,

there was a line twenty people deep waiting for an elevator

that looked like it'd been erected by people who still wore

shirtwaists. Amanda, though, seemed completely unsurprised.

"It's always like this," she said. "The elevator goes about

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a floor an hour. It's an excuse for students to be late to class.

Professors can always tell who the serious students are

because they're the ones who are panting and sweating when

the bell rings. Come on, let's take the stairs."

Agnes Trimble's office was on the third floor. I was hardly

panting when we arrived. I felt a small amount of pride at

that. Then I felt ashamed for being proud of walking up two

flights of stairs.

I followed Amanda down a whitewashed hall. Most of the

doors were closed, the faculty having all adjourned for the

summer, the corkboards adjacent to them holding naked

staples and thumbtacks and occasional notices whose posters

had neglected to take them down.

As we turned down one corridor, I heard loud noise coming

from the end of the hall. As we got closer, I could hear the strains

of the Grateful Dead's "Casey Jones" playing at full blast.

"That'd be her," Amanda said without an ounce of irony.

"She's a huge deadhead."

We followed the music and came to an open doorway

whose nameplate read Professor Agnes Trimble. And immediately my expectations were blown to hell.

Agnes Trimble was a small woman, sitting down I guessed

about five foot three and a hundred ten pounds. She looked

to be in her late fifties, with hair dyed so red I was surprised

a horde of bulls weren't stampeding around the office. Her

hair was done up in what I could best describe as a bird's nest,

pretty much clumped together and held there with a brown

scrunchy and a few terrorized bobby pins. On her ears rested

a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, which I suppose helped her

enjoy the two lava lamps in either corner. On her computer,

a felt monkey dangled from a small American flag, its Velcro

hands fastened to the top of the Stars and Stripes. Taped to

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113

one shelf looked to be an actual ticket stub from the original

Woodstock, complete with authentic-looking mud stain. Her

shelves were covered in books whose staid titles must have

been hideously embarrassed by the rest of the decor. I debated

relaying the information that the Partridge Family bus had left

the parking lot a long time ago.

And resting among these hipster-drenched relics were

dozens of toy guns. All makes and models. Rifles, cannons,

small arms and enough tanks to blow the hell out of the Indian

in the Cupboard.

And somehow I was not surprised to see pictures of various

male celebrities, many of them sans shirts or other commonly

worn articles of clothing, taped to a corkboard behind her

desk. I suppose reporting while staring at the nipples of

Orlando Bloom and George Clooney had to happen

sometime.

"Amanda, baby!" Agnes leapt up, leaned over the desk and

wrapped her arms around Amanda, who leaned in awkwardly

to reach the small woman. Agnes squeezed her eyes shut,

sucked in a breath, and for a moment I worried she might be

trying to inhale Amanda's soul.

When they separated, Amanda gestured to me and said,

"Professor Trimble, this is who I was telling you about, Henry

Parker. He's a reporter for the
Gazette.
" I held out my hand

to shake hers. She eyed me, squinted slightly.

"He your...boyfriend?" she asked, a sly smile on her lips.

"Uh..." I said.

"Actually, yes," Amanda said. "I didn't realize we were

wearing name tags."

Agnes sat back down, reached into her desk and pulled out

a candy cane. She unwrapped it and popped the whole thing

in her mouth. Through a mouthful of peppermint, she said,

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"You didn't need name tags. Eighty-thirty in the morning,

both of you dressed and showered, Henry wearing matching

socks and the whole nine. Henry here is a reporter...no guy

I've ever met under the age of thirty is dressed well and

showered this early unless they're going to work, going to a

funeral, or going somewhere with the person they sleep with.

Do you have a funeral this afternoon?"

My cheeks grew warm, and Amanda's looked like they

could catch fire at any moment. "Not that I know of," I said.

"Then you're boyfriend and girlfriend," Agnes said.

"That's lovely. Please, sit. Candy cane?"

"No, thanks," we echoed.

Agnes shrugged as if she couldn't believe how anyone

could say no to such a scrumptious treat at this time of day.

In the meantime, Agnes seemed to have noticed me staring

at the photos behind her desk. I'd also noticed that she wore

a wedding ring.

"You never had pictures taped to your locker?" she asked.

"I did," I said, "back in high school." I glanced at her

wedding ring. "How does your husband feel about them?"

"What are you, ten years old?" she asked. "He knows I'm

not sleeping with Brad Pitt, and as long as that stays the case

he could care less if I have pictures of him or Stephen

Hawking on my wall. If you have a problem with them, you

can leave any time."

There was a sharp pain in my side as Amanda elbowed me.

"Nope, no problem."

"So, Amanda, how
are
you? It's been, what, three years?"

"Four," Amanda corrected. "Junior year, U.S. Nineteenth

Century Intellectual and Cultural History."

"What'd I give you in that class?"

"A minus."

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115

"That'll do. I refuse to put up with students post-graduation

unless they've received at least a B plus. So what brings you

to our humble university? Not soliciting donations, I hope."

I laughed. Amanda didn't. Clearly I'd missed a joke.

"So, Mr. Parker," Agnes said. "Amanda tells me you're a

reporter and you have some questions a woman of my expertise might be able to assist you with. That correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. Agnes cringed.

"Don't call me ma'am, please. I'd rather die alone surrounded by cats than think I'm a ma'am. Call me Agnes."

"Right, Agnes. Anyway, you've heard about these murders,

right? Athena Paradis, Officer Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes?"

She shook her head sadly. "Terrible, terrible things. How

someone can murder people who've contributed so much to

our society is just shameful and beyond me."

"The person who committed these crimes, I'm pretty sure

they're using a weapon, specifically a rifle, that has some

specific cause or reason behind its use. The killer is also using

ammunition I've been told is quite out of the ordinary," I

eyed her red hair, the lava lamps. "Amanda said you were

familiar with nineteenth-century weaponry..."

"Shoot," she said. Then she laughed. "Get it, shoot? Go on."

"Right. So my source in the NYPD told me that the bullet

used to kill both Athena Paradis and Officer Mauser was a

.44-40 caliber magnum round."

Agnes bit her lip, furrowed her brow.

"That's a powerful bullet," she said.

"So I've heard. Is it true that it's an uncommon round?"

"Depends," she said. "Hunters use them all the time--

.44-40 bullets have massive stopping power, and just enough

accuracy that if you're a decent shot, you'll only need one

shot."

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Jason Pinter

"I've scanned the police reports for every homicide in the

five boroughs over the last five years," I said. "Three hundred

and twelve murders. None of them with magnum rounds."

"Well, to be honest magnum rounds aren't the kind of ammunition you tend to see these days, at least not around

here," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the area between the Hudson and East River isn't

exactly known for their hunting grounds." She paused.

"Unless this man is making them."

"I think he may be," I said.

"Listen, Mr. Parker..."

"Call me Henry."