The Letter Killeth (13 page)

Izquierdo sat behind his desk, staring at Wack. Or staring at anything that looked at him. He didn't move. He said nothing. Wack had moved one foot back, preparing to flee.

“Your wife's looking for you.”

The expression did not change. A horrible thought occurred. Wack moved closer to the desk. The eyes never blinked. He reached out tentatively, prepared to scoot if Izquierdo was putting on an act. Then his fingers came in contact with Izquierdo's forehead. It was ice cold.

With a shriek, Wack bounded into the corridor and began to spread the alarm.

PART THREE

1

When the South Bend paramedics arrived on the scene, the Notre Dame fire department was already there, and campus security was trying to cordon off the area on the third floor of Decio where the dead body of Raul Izquierdo had been found, seated behind his desk, staring blankly into eternity. Professors objected to this invasion of their space, of course, and diplomatic skills were called into play. Those having failed, everyone was chased from the floor and a burly sergeant was put on sentry duty.

Flashes of light from the open door of Izquierdo's office indicated that photographs were being taken. When Phil Knight arrived, the sergeant waved him through to a murmur of disapproval from onlookers. Phil found Jimmy Stewart in the office, watching the technical recording of the crime scene.

“How'd he go?” Phil asked.

“He looks as if he was scared to death.”

“Why don't they shut his eyes?”

“Later.”

Photographs having been taken, the desk and most of the office dusted for prints, the coroner pronounced Izquierdo officially dead. When he headed for the door, Jimmy stopped him.

“Well?”

“I'd say strangled.”

“With what?”

“There's nothing here.”

When Crenshaw arrived he had trouble getting past the sergeant and was in a mood when he confronted Jimmy. “No one called me,” he complained. “The sight of all that equipment was my first realization anything had happened.” They turned as a gurney with the zipped-up body bag rolled past. Crenshaw stepped back.

“Is that a body?”

“Professor Izquierdo.”

“Good God.” He thought. “I cede jurisdiction to you.”

Jimmy let it go. There were lots of invisible curtains between town and gown, but dead bodies were not a university affair. Crenshaw looked around, then headed for a water fountain. It was almost a relief when he dipped to drink. He might have intended to symbolically wash his hands of the whole business. He came back.

“Izquierdo is the guy whose car was burned.”

Jimmy nodded.

“You going to represent the university?” Crenshaw asked Phil.

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I haven't talked to Father Carmody yet.”

Crenshaw unclipped a cell phone and handed it to Phil. Well, why not? Phil punched out the number of Holy Cross House and asked for Father Carmody.

“He's taking his nap.”

“Lucky him. This is important.”

A pause. He was asked to wait. While he did, Phil took Crenshaw's cell phone down the hall a bit. The sergeant was still keeping the faculty at bay. There had been a lull when they realized what was on the gurney that rolled by them, but now the grumbling resumed. Jimmy went to tell the sergeant it was okay now. Father Carmody came on, his voice cranky.

“Phil Knight. We have a body in Decio.”

“Decio is full of bodies.”

“This one is dead.”

Silence. “Who?”

“Raul Izquierdo.”

“The atheist?” A beat. “Well, he isn't any longer. Tell me about it.”

“Things are still fluid. Crenshaw asked if I represented the university in this.”

“Of course you do. It's a continuation of those damned notes, isn't it?”

No point in telling Carmody that Izquierdo hadn't received a note. At least he had never said so.

“I'll come by later with what we learn.”

When Phil got back to Jimmy and Crenshaw, Jimmy had just asked the head of security if Larry Douglas was around.

“Douglas? What for?”

“Where can I reach him?”

Crenshaw took the cell phone, called his office, and said, “Laura, where is Larry Douglas?” He listened, frowning. He folded up the phone.

“He called in sick.”

“Is he a local boy?”

“You got a dead man here and you wonder about some kid who dishes out parking tickets?” But Crenshaw seemed to remember how Douglas had outshone him in the Kittock killing. “I'll let him know you want to see him.”

“No need to do that. I was just curious.”

“Sure you were.”

Crenshaw wheeled and went down the corridor at a great rate. There are cops and cops, and Crenshaw was the other kind. Jimmy put the sergeant on sentry at Izquierdo's door and was about to go in when he hesitated, then went and knocked on the door of the adjacent office. He had to knock three times before there was the sound of a lock turning, the door opened slightly, and a terrified face looked out. “Professor Wack?”

“Yes, yes. What is it?”

“You found him, right?”

“Is he…”

“Yes. The body's been taken away.”

The look of terror increased, then subsided as Wack slumped to the floor.

They pushed in, picked him up, and got him into his desk chair. He was white as a sheet and still out. Jimmy picked up a container half full of cool coffee and dashed it into Wack's face. He came spluttering to consciousness. He looked wildly at Jimmy and then began to dab at his shirt with a handkerchief.

“Tell us about it,” Jimmy said.

The narrative gift is unequally distributed, and even those who normally have it can lose it in a pressure situation. Wack babbled more or less incoherently. Jimmy sat, and Phil did, too.

“Look,” Jimmy said. “Did you ever make a general confession?”

“What?”

“The confessor runs down the list and you say yes and no. I'm going to do that, okay?”

Wack nodded.

“You discovered the body?”

“Yes.”

“You went next door, walked in, and there he was behind the desk?”

Wack nodded, then closed his eyes. He opened them right away.

“Why did you go over there?”

He couldn't answer yes or no to that, but now he was less agitated. “The departmental secretary said his wife was looking for him.”

“What's her name?”

“Him. Hector. A pardonable mistake.”

Phil said, “Has she been told?”

“Professor,” Jimmy said, “why don't you call Hector and have him call Mrs. Izquierdo. Just tell her something has happened.”

Wack picked up his phone. Izquierdo's death apparently came as a surprise to Hector, so Wack told him what had happened.

“Yes, dead. At his desk. This place has been simply crawling with firemen, policemen, detectives, what-all. Just call her, all right?” Pause. “I understand. Just tell her that something has happened, that's all you have to say. And she should come at once.”

Wack's eyes widened, and he looked at Jimmy. “Where should she come?”

“Campus security.” Jimmy avoided Phil's eyes.

Wack repeated it, then hung up.

“So, Izquierdo's wife calls Hector and says she can't reach her husband?”

“Words to that effect.”

“We'll speak to her later. So what did you do then? Go right next door?”

“Not immediately. No. But soon.”

“You knocked?”

“The door wasn't locked.”

“You tried it?”

“Yes.”

“Having knocked?”

“I don't remember.”

“And there he was, seated at his desk?”

“Staring.” He shuddered. “I noticed his eyes didn't blink. I touched his forehead…”

And then he spread the alarm. Wack had no idea when Izquierdo had arrived in his office; he had been unaware of his even being there throughout the morning.

“Keep these memories fresh,” Jimmy advised him. “We'll talk again.”

Phil and Jimmy then went to Izquierdo's office, where Jimmy took the desk chair and began slowly to rotate it. Phil was looking at the spines of the books all neatly stored in their shelves. He said, “He should have put up a struggle if he was strangled.”

Jimmy bent over and looked at the well of the desk, then studied the floor. “I think maybe he did. Unless he just enjoyed kicking the hell out of his desk. And you can see that the desk is not sitting in the indentations it made in the carpet. Whoever killed him must have tidied up before he left.”

The plastic bag containing snippings from
Via Media,
a pair of scissors, and glue was in a bottom drawer of the desk. Jimmy removed it carefully and laid it on the desk, its contents visible through the clear plastic. He looked at Phil.

“No wonder he didn't get a threatening letter himself.”

“Return to sender?”

They left the office in the care of the sergeant and took the elevator downstairs. Jimmy's car was parked on the sidewalk in front of Decio; when he came, he had just hung a left from the stadium.

When they were buckled in, Phil asked, “Why did you ask Crenshaw about that kid Larry Douglas?”

“Let's go see.”

2

The loft Larry had rented after being hired by Notre Dame security was not much—his mother had wept when he showed it to her—but it was exactly what he wanted, a big room and no one to tell him to clean it up. The bed was emperor size at least, and he lay on his back in the middle of it staring at the ceiling. There was an overhead fixture with a fan that sounded like an airplane in trouble when he turned it on, something he didn't do in this kind of weather. He had two windows right under the eaves from which icicles hung now, glittering in the weak sunlight. The television was a reject of his parents', but he only used it for sports, and then he preferred a sports bar with Laura.

Laura. The interlude with Kimberley had been too good to last; she had deserted him for Henry, who had a line like Don Juan. Some contest. Don Juan and Don Quixote. So he was stuck with Laura again. She loved this loft, not that he let her up here very often. Any grappling had to go on elsewhere, usually in his car. He might be on his own, but his mother's presence hung over the loft like a persistent conscience.

The sad thing was that, once he had exchanged Laura for Kimberley, he had repented of those prolonged sessions in the car, and one day he went to Sacred Heart at eleven in the morning, his uniform concealed by a bulky jacket, and got in line at the confessional. He was still trying to figure out how to tell the priest when his turn came. As soon as the grille slid open, he blurted out that he had committed adultery.

On the other side of the grille, the priest stirred. “You're married?”

“No, Father.”

“The woman is married.”

“No.”

A pause. “You had relations with her?”

Larry relaxed. The priest had been startled by the way he began, but this was his job. He said yes, he'd had relations with her.

Just the once?

“Many times.”

“Three, four.”

“Dozens of times.”

Another pause. “Is she a student, too?”

“I'm not a student, Father.”

“I see.” He sounded relieved.

Kneeling during the long pep talk that followed, Larry began to think of the others waiting in line. How long had he been in here? He assured the priest that he had stopped seeing the girl, he meant never to see her again.

“Good. Good.”

For his penance he was to say Psalm 32; he would find it in the red book in the pews. Would he do that?

“Yes, Father.”

And then he was given absolution. He practically floated out of the confessional, drifting past those in line, avoiding their eyes. He went halfway down a side aisle and slid into a pew. How easy it had been. He sat, staring at the altar, at the statue of Mary in the niche high above on the back wall. He had recited the Act of Contrition before receiving absolution and promising to amend his life; that meant that from now on it was Kimberley, because Kimberley wouldn't allow him the liberties Laura had. He took out the red book and found the psalm.

That had been a month ago, and now, thanks to Henry, he was back in the danger area. Laura had reclaimed him with familiar warmth; he had let her tell him what a shallow person Kimberley was, just the sort of person someone like Henry would find attractive.

“You had a narrow escape, Larry.”

Escape was what he thought of as they huddled in the front seat of his car. Laura did a lot of sighing that sounded phony to Larry. He was the phony, though. It wasn't just with Kimberley that Henry had asserted his superiority. He had come to treat Larry like an apprentice, even though they had been hired within weeks of one another.

On Sunday he had gone to Mass with his mother, and she didn't exactly quiz him about not receiving communion, but he could hear the wheels turning in her head. After dinner, she wondered if she shouldn't give that loft of his a good cleaning. It brought back memories of how she had prowled around his room when he lived at home. He didn't have to wonder what she would think of Laura. All that meat and no potatoes. He had come back here to his loft, alone, and told himself he had to go to confession again. He would know enough to call it fornication this time. But what was the point? He couldn't shake Laura, so he couldn't promise to amend his life. He felt miserable. That morning he called in sick.

“Oh, that's a shame,” Laura said.

“I'll be all right.” But he said it with a croaking voice.

“I'll stop over after work.”

“No, no. That's okay.” He added, “I don't want you to catch it.”

“What is it?”

“Flu.” Short for influenza. Influence. Bad influence. Lady, beware.