Jonathon Redding

Chapter 6

The University of California, Berkeley is a rather large place. With more than fifty buildings housing dozens of faculties, it is a beautiful center of arts and culture blending with one of the country's most prominent educational facilities. From Nuclear Engineering to Fine Arts, from Paleobotany to Forensic Science, the University of California, Berkeley has it all. And the Office of the Chancellor sat right at the heart of it.

California Hall itself was a small building, only two stories in the Beaux-Arts style of its architect, John Galen Howard, with white limestone façade, sculpted cedars and high red-tile roof graced with weathered copper. The Sather Tower was visible from its many windows, and from there, the Golden Gate Bridge across the Bay. It was a view they were beginning to know well, for both Lisbon and Jane had been waiting for a very long time.

With a slurp, Jane finished off his tea. The Chancellor's administrator, Ellen Dansigger, had been kind enough to make the offer, and he had taken her up on it. They had been waiting for almost 30 minutes now and Lisbon had to give him credit. For the most part, he had been very patient. He had flipped through all of the magazines on the coffee table in front of them, had done every crossword, every Sudoku, every puzzle he could find inside them. He had ripped out recipes and stuffed them in his pockets. He had even begun working on a list of possible male name combinations for Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly. The yellow pencil was almost gone. But all in all, she had to give him credit.

And so, with that last sip, he rose to his feet, carrying the cup and saucer the very short distance to the receptionist and laying it on her desk. She smiled up at him.

"Thank you so much," he said. "That was very thoughtful." And he touched her on the arm.

"You're welcome," she blushed, obviously charmed.

"That's a lot of magazines you have there."

"Well, yes, sometimes people like to read."

"While they're waiting."

"Yes, while they're waiting."

"That's very, very thoughtful."

She blushed again.

Lisbon rolled her eyes.

And seeing it, he turned that smile on her now, ran one hand then the other along his waistcoat as if thinking. She frowned as little alarm bells began to go off in her head, when suddenly he spun on his heel, took several steps and pushed open the large double doors into the Chancellor's office.

"Jane, no!" Lisbon bolted her feet.

"No, sir! The Chancellor is not ready—"

Chancellor Edwin Haas glared up at them, a phone cradled in one hand, a pen in the other.

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed and he cupped his hand over the receiver.

"Pardon granted," smiled Jane.

"I'm so sorry, sir," moaned Lisbon, trying but not succeeding in grabbing the consultant's arm.

"Oh, pishtosh, Lisbon. The Chancellor is just finishing up, isn't he?"

"I most certainly am not!" And he held up his phone. "This is a very important call."

"Oh no," said Jane as his eyes swept across the items on the desk. "It most certainly is not. In fact, it's trivial, demeaning and utterly destructive."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Tell her you are finished and that you cannot see her ever again. Tell her that your wife is getting suspicious and that your children deserve so much better and that Ms. Dansigger is a woman of integrity and that she refuses to keep your dirty little secret any longer. You need to tell her that, Edwin. Tell her right now."

The Chancellor's jaw hung open for several seconds, nostrils flaring, brows drawn, and he looked like he might just ram that pen through Jane's skull. But finally he turned back to the receiver.

"I'll call you later."

And he promptly hung up.

"Thank you, Ms. Dangsigger. You may go now." He laid down his pen with the utmost care, folded his hands across his desk, and fixed the pair with a dark stare. "And who are you, exactly?"

Lisbon stepped forward, marveling at how she always found herself in such similar situations. "Agents Lisbon and Jane, with the CBI. We called earlier this morning."

"Ah yes. Please sit down."

Lisbon sat. Jane didn't. She sighed. This was going to be messy. She could just tell.

She needed to talk first.

"You do realize," said Jane, first. "That keeping people waiting like that is just plain mean and borders on manipulation. Do you have obsessive/compulsive tendencies, Edwin, or is that just your way of establishing control? Control is an idol, Edwin. A harsh and untenable task master."

Lisbon pondered what her life might be like if she moved to Bakersfield, got a job with the beat, maybe something nice and safe in traffic somewhere.

"You do realize," Haas said, "That that was a very important phone call from the Dean of Nuclear Medicine. Why on earth would you assume otherwise?"

Jane raised his brows. "You're having an affair with the Dean of Nuclear Medicine?"

"I'm not having an affair with anyone—"

"Oh, sure you are. Look here, you've been drawing little hearts on your note pad, while taking this 'very important phone call'. Rather old school and romantic, actually. The photos of your wife and sons are angled away slightly on your desk so they can't 'see' what you're doing. No eye contact, therefore no guilt. It's subconscious really. Human nature."

Chancellor Haas continued to glare at him a moment before turning to look at Lisbon. "What were your names, again?" He picked up his pen again, quickly tore off the heart-filled page, crumpled it and tossed it in the bin, before reaching for a new one.

"Teresa Lisbon," said Jane leaning over the desk. "That's L I S B O N. Just like the city in Portugal. And mine is Patrick Jane. Capital J A N silent E. Makes the A long."

Haas stared at him, looking ready to snap the pen in half.

"Etymology," grinned Jane. "Gotta luv it."

Yes, thought Lisbon. Traffic would be nice.

"Spelling is very important, don't you think? There are a couple of police officers in Alameda who don't seem to think so. But I don't think they went to a nice university like this."

Haas grit his teeth. "Yes, Mr. Jane with a silent E. Spelling is very important."

"Haas. That's with two As, yeh? Dutch?"

"Yes, Mr. Jane. Dutch."

"Wonderful." Jane turned to her and smiled. "Your turn."

She shot him with her eyes, before turning to the Chancellor. "Dr. Haas, we're investigating a series of crimes that all appear to have a Berkeley connection."

He sighed, looked at her wearily. "And?"

"And…we are going to need a list of all students enrolled in the post-grad program, along with all your faculty members." She smiled sweetly.

And he smiled sweetly back at her. "No."

"I love university life," sang Jane. "I should have come here."

"And where did you go, Mr. Jane with the silent E?" Haas' smile was anything but sweet now. "Which university or college had the honour of enabling you?"

"Oh, nowhere and none. Self-made man and all that."

"Obviously."

Lisbon set her teeth. "Dr. Haas, two men have been murdered in a very short span of time, and we have reason to believe the perpetrator or perpetrators are Berkeley post-grad students. If we could just—

"Ms. Lisbon—"

"Senior Agent Lisbon," she growled.

Jane glanced at her, eyes dancing. He so loved it when she got angry. It was like poking a beehive with a stick, then running when the bully showed up. Despicable, yes. Cowardly, hell yes, but she was so much better than a swarm of bees.

Haas put on a thin smile. "Yes, Senior Agent Lisbon, thank you. But you must understand my position. Berkeley is a very large university, and we have been a stringent supporter of personal liberties and freedoms for over one hundred years."

"Not the freedom to commit murder."

"Has there been a murder committed anywhere on the Berkeley campus?"

"No, but—"

"Has a student of ours been murdered then?"

"Mark Mooney got his head shot off," offered Jane helpfully.

"By an overzealous police officer. Yes, I've been informed. But in Alameda, not here."

Lisbon leaned forward. "He was a suspect in a multiple homicide."

Hass tapped a paper on his desk. "According to the memo that was sent me this morning, he was in fact one who found a body, nothing more."

"He gave false evidence in the course of a police investigation."

"All that means, Senior Agent Lisbon, is that he is guilty of lying to a police officer."

"Twice. And that is a still crime in the state of California."

"A misdemeanor." Hass sighed. "Senior Agent Lisbon, you are asking me to suspend the Privacy Act on a shoestring. If we gave out our student list to every officer investigating every criminal offence that had the slightest connection to this facility, not only would we be able to get nothing else accomplished, we would be no better than a totalitarian state."

"Dr. Haas, a warrant is in the works as we speak," said Lisbon. "It would save valuable time if you would simply cooperate with our investigation."

"Senior Agent Lisbon, when I receive the aforementioned warrant I will immediately file an appeal with the ACLU and the Department of Justice regarding nondisclosure pursuant to the Privacy Act—"

"Sir, there is a provision for exemption of the Privacy Act in matters of Law Enforcement—"

"Which must be upheld by a civil court, under the appropriate Search and Seizure laws of California."

"The CBI is the Enforcement Arm of the Office of the Attorney General and the Department of Justice, Dr. Haas." And her emerald eyes flashed at him. "We are the law in California."

Five minutes later, they were leaving the Office of the Chancellor, a thick manila envelope in her hands. Jane was practically bouncing at her side. He was smiling.

"What?" she growled as they trotted down the stairs.

"Oh nothing."

She ground her molars and kept on down.

He kept on smiling.

"What?"

"We are the law in California."

"Shut up, Jane."

And they left California Hall and its Beaux-Arts design, and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

"""""""""""""""""""""

Mark Mooney lived off campus, in a basement apartment under a corner store. It was not a pretty area, nor was it a seedy one, simply an average neighbourhood in an average California town. Perfect for any student, undergrad or post.

There were several unmarked police vehicles pulled up in front of the building, as well as two squad cars, one from Berkeley township and the other from Alameda. Cho shot Rigsby a dark glance. The more precincts involved in this, the more difficult things would become. The CBI could turf anyone, but things got messy, not to mention ugly, when that happened, and this case was already ugly enough.

They stomped down the steep steps, past the freezer and hot water heater and the shelves for canned goods and paint. Cops turned as they approached, but Rigsby flashed his badge and the pair pushed their way inside. Nelson swung around immediately.

"Oh, you guys," he grunted. "I thought you were going home."

"No," said Cho. "Just getting started."

"You turfing?"

Several of the officers turned to watch.

"Maybe."

Nelson rolled his eyes. Rigsby shook his head, dumbfounded. Most cops weren't like this. It reflected badly on the profession, and Rigsby took his profession seriously. He put his hands on his hips and nodded at the man.

"What have you got?" he asked, certain that the standards he held were shared.

"What are you looking for?"

"Did he have a computer?"

"Yeah, Forensic boys have taken it downtown."

"Downtown where?" asked Cho. He was completely deadpan, like he was in an interrogation room.

Nelson held their stare a moment. "Alameda. This crime was committed in Alameda."

"Which crime?" asked Cho. Completely deadpan.

"Which crime? The Polley killing, of course. What crime are you talking about?"

"Maybe I'm talking about the other one, the Cambrian investment banker eviscerated in Los Padres National Forest. Maybe that one."

"Yeah," added Rigsby. "That's why we came up here in the first place, remember?"

"Then maybe you should turf."

"Maybe we should," said Cho.

The silence grew uncomfortable. Rigsby cleared his throat.

"Um, what about journals, daytimers, appointment books, that kind of thing…"

"Any books, actually," said Cho. "I'd like to see what this guy read."

"Yeah," added Rigsby. "If he really is into Stoker or Hawking."

"What is it with you guys and books?" Nelson asked, shaking his head. "That's what Elmo said."

"It's true," said Rigsby as Cho wandered away, looking for bookshelves and shaking his head. "You can tell a lot about a person by what they read."

"Yeah well," grinned Nelson. "Not everybody reads."

Rigsby shrugged.

"I guess that tells you a lot about a person too."

Nelson grunted. "Speaking of Elmo, you heard he chucked my Kimber into the Bay?"

"After you shot the head off a Berkeley student."

"You don't mess with a man's piece. Shows no respect."

"Have you found the kid's body yet?"

"Naw. He's fish food."

Rigsby sighed, cast his eyes around the small cluttered apartment. Wandered over to the phone. There was a notepad, several crumpled Kleenex and a prescription bottle. Xanax for anxiety. He hmphed. Mooney had been telling the truth about that. Snapping on his white latex gloves, he picked up the bottle, slipped it in a plastic baggie. Picked up the phone next, pressed the buttons for the phone book.

"Bingo," he smiled as a set of programmed numbers began to scroll. He bagged the phone as well.

He wandered over to where Cho was standing. There were indeed books stacked and crammed in a makeshift shelving unit. He let his eyes wander down the titles, mostly texts from his classes in the liberal arts and sociology.

"He was in Women's Studies, wasn't he?" asked Rigsby.

"Yeah," said Cho. "Lots of text books, but there's some interesting stuff here. Serious novels, award winners."

"Well, remember what Jane said," the big man grinned. "Readers are leaders."

"And then there are these…" Cho held up two hardcovers.

"'Suffragette City: London in the 1880s', and "Ripped; the Real Story of Jack the Ripper'."

Rigsby raised his brows. "Whoa, I think we win a turkey or something."

And he pulled out his phone and made the call.

""""""""""""""""""""

Teresa Lisbon folded her phone and slipped it in her pocket.

They were sitting under a stand of large twisting oaks in the greenspace known as the Chancellor's Esplanade, and the sun was warm on their faces. In fact, this campus seemed to her very much like a park with trees, shrubs, flower gardens and paths everywhere, and in the distance, the spire of the Sather Tower reached for the sky.

"Well?" Jane asked. He was looking at her expectantly, propped up on one elbow and stretched out on the grass like a cat in the sun.

"They've had his phone, computer and some books sent over to the Regional office in San Fran. I've sent them over to his psychiatrist's office. Maybe he can tell them something. Not likely, but it's worth a shot."

"Books? Did you say books?"

She cleared her throat. "Just books, you know. Text books, women's books, just other…books…"

"What kind of books?"

"Jack the Ripper books," she grumbled.

"What?" He held a hand up to his ear. "My ears are still ringing. Can you speak a little louder?"

She swatted him on the shoulder. "You can hear me just fine. There were several texts on Women's issues in Victorian-era London, and a few Jack the Ripper books."

"So are you saying I was right?" he asked loudly. Several passing students glanced over and smiled.

She couldn't help but grin. After the heaviness of the last few months, his attempts at play were welcomed. He was undoubtedly the most resilient person she had ever met.

"Yes, Jane. You appear to be right. Again."

"Never tire of that."

"Nelson was there."

"He's a buffoon," he hmphed and leaned back onto both elbows this time, watching students. "Have they found Mooney's body yet?"

"He's dead, Jane."

"I know. Have they?"

"No." She sighed. "Grace has got the student list from the Chancellor's office, as well as the faculty list. We can talk to Mooney's prof at 4:00 this afternoon. She's also pulling a list from DMV as we speak. When we get back, do you think you can give her some names?"

He didn't respond, so she studied him. He was staring out over the Esplanade with glassy eyes, detached and distant. Locked in on his own thoughts, shutting everyone and everything else out. It was happening more and more of late, and she was powerless to stop it.

"What are you thinking?" she asked finally.

"Did you know," he said quietly. "That there were two different police forces investigating the Ripper murders? That the friction between them was one of the reasons the case was never closed. Too many fingers in one very messy pie…"

"I'll call the AG. We can take this."

"They needed focus, one single vision, one mind putting the pieces of the puzzle together."

Her heart sank. She realized he wasn't talking about the Ripper anymore.

"Or a team," she added. "One tight-knit team could have done it. One man can't always see all of the pieces."

He looked up at her. "Depends on the man."

"Maybe it depends on the team."

And he studied her for a long moment, then offered her a smile. She could tell it was an effort, but she appreciated it. He was pulling himself out of his mire, just for her. "Did you also know that there was a psychic who'd offered to help, back then?"

"With the Ripper case? Really?"

"Yep. He was refused three times, by three different offices."

"Fascinating. You are a wealth of macabre and disturbing but oddly amusing facts."

"Meh. It's my gift."

She rose to her feet. "Off to find a prof we go, Jane with a silent E." She offered him her hand. "And you see, no bad things have happened to you today."

"Thank you, Special Agent Lisbon," he said as she helped him to his feet. "But the day is still young. We can always hope."

And together, they headed back into the heart of the campus, to find the Women's Studies professor in charge of Mark Mooney and his Ph.D.

End of Chapter 6