Jonathon Redding
Chapter 7
Grace Van Pelt peered into the refrigerator and her dark eyes grew wide. Yoghurt, fresh sandwiches, grapes, V-8 juice in individual cans, spring water. It set her mouth watering immediately, and she realized her stomach was growling in response.
"You can help yourself, you know," came a voice, and she turned to find Mira Vierra standing behind her, arms folded across her chest. "The AG pays to keep it stocked."
Van Pelt scowled and closed the door. "Fridge isn't stocked in Sacramento, and we're the central office."
The young woman smiled. "Maybe that's one of the perks of being regional. Everyone's jockeying for Sacramento, so they make San Fran just a little bit sweeter."
"Water's fine." Grace stood up and twisted the top of the plastic bottle. "Besides, when the others get back, we'll probably head out for some dinner. Are there any good restaurants nearby?"
Vierra stepped a little closer. "Oh, they're all good around here. I could stay and help you find something, if you need..." There was something in her eye that set Van Pelt's teeth on edge.
"Oh no," she said quickly. "We can manage. We always do."
Mira Vierra looked down, bit her lip. Damn, thought Grace. Here it comes.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure." Van Pelt took a swig from the water bottle.
"Agent Rigsby…Is he… seeing anyone?"
Took her time swallowing. "Nope," she said, and took another swig, suddenly wishing it were whiskey.
Vierra took a step closer and suddenly it was high school, all over again. "I mean, I don't usually get like this, but damn, he's really hot and well, you know…"
Van Pelt chugged that water bottle, the whole damn thing straight, like gin. "Yep," she said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "I know."
"So, he's not seeing anyone…?"
It took only a moment, but then again, she had been working with Patrick Jane for almost three years. Things were bound to rub off. She straightened, arched one brow.
"He doesn't like to 'see' anyone, if you know what I mean…"
Vierra's large eyes grew wide. "No, I don't. What do you mean?"
Now it was Grace's turn to step close. "He's a good lover, if that's what you're asking. A very good lover. Just ask any woman in head office. They've all had their turn with Wayne Rigsby…"
The young woman frowned. "Oh…"
"Oh yes…He's quite the Casanova. What are his key words? Contempt, Control and Excitation… That's right. A regular ladies' man."
Vierra pouted, looking down. "Oh, okay…" She turned to leave the kitchenette. "Thanks, um, for letting me know…"
Van Pelt crunched the water bottle in her grip, tossed a perfect two pointer into the recycle bin. "Anytime…"
And she was alone again.
For some reason, Grace Van Pelt did not feel victorious. In fact, she felt a little sad, and she wondered why she had done it. For in fact, Wayne Rigsby was a good man, and now a free one. And she herself was happily seeing Special Agent Craig O'Laughlin. There was no need to be catty, certainly no need to lie.
She frowned, sighed, and wandered back to the conference room, where only her computers were waiting.
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They did not wait long to see the Dean of Women's Studies, Patricia Henning. In fact, it was as if Edwin Haas had gone to special lengths to ensure the pair from the CBI were shown all professional courtesies and doors opened all around them like magic. If she didn't know better, Teresa Lisbon would have been suspicious.
Patricia Henning, however, was a complete professional.
"I'm terribly sorry to hear about Mark," she said solemnly. "He seemed to be a nice young man."
Lisbon nodded. "Did you know him at all?"
The woman paused, shook her head. "Not 'know' him, per se. But I did interview him three times. This was his fourth attempt at the Doctoral Program."
Lisbon glanced over to where Jane was standing. Naturally, he was looking at her books. His back was to them, as if uninterested. She looked back at Henning.
"And why was that?"
"Well," she said carefully. "I think Mark was a nice man, just not a… great student. I wasn't convinced he was Ph.D. material."
From the books, Jane began to hum happily, and suddenly the words 'stupid student' echoed through her mind. She ground her teeth and continued.
"Who was his dissertation supervisor?"
"Well," said Henning. "That was a bit of a problem as well. He's been through four already…"
"Four?" Jane swung around. "Why four?"
She sighed. "No one wanted to work with him. I think he had problems."
"Problems?" Lisbon now.
"Anxiety problems. He was a very nervous, anxious person. Neurotic, even. It's not conducive to serious academic pursuits."
Jane glanced at Lisbon. "Hm," he said, before turning back to the books. Lisbon had no idea what he had just meant. But then again, there was no surprise in that.
"Did you know any of his friends? Did he hang around with any of the other post-grad students?"
She frowned, shook her head. "Honestly, I wouldn't know. I'm sorry"
Jane turned slightly toward them, holding a book open in his hands. "It took him four years to gain admittance to the Doctoral Program, yeh?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"What was his proposed thesis?"
"I'm not certain he had nailed that down yet." She glanced from Jane to Lisbon and back again. "Or maybe, his ideas kept getting shot down. I'm not sure."
"Did he have a problem with women?"
"I…wouldn't know…"
"His mother died when he was eight, yeh? Did he have a problem with his mother?"
"I wouldn't know that either…"
"So why Women's Studies?"
"So why not Women's Studies, Mr. Jane?"
He shrugged. "It's just a question, Patricia."
"A question rife with implication and suggestion, Mr. Jane." She was staring at him with sharp eyes. "And you may call me Ms. Henning or Dean Henning."
He grinned at her. "There is power in suggestion, Ms. Henning."
"There is also condescension in suggestion, Mr. Jane."
"I'm always suggestive and condescending, Ms. Henning. Ask Senior Agent Lisbon."
Lisbon sighed. She was dizzy from all the politicking this afternoon. "Jane, do you have any other non-suggestive, non-condescending questions? Otherwise, I think we're done."
"No, no. I'm good."
Lisbon rose to her feet, offered her hand. "We may be in touch if we have any more questions."
"Of course."
Jane was already at the door. He swung around, eyes dancing. "Oh, wait, there is one more question, if I may, Ms. Henning?"
Now it was Henning's turn to sigh. "Yes, Mr. Jane?"
"Is there a Ph.D. Program in Criminal Science at Berkeley?"
She paused, thought for a moment. "I believe so. You'll need to contact that department."
He grinned at Lisbon. "More teachers. I'm beginning to wish I'd gone to school."
She grabbed his arm and shoved him out, closing the door behind them.
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They indeed visited the office of the Dean of Criminal Science, and those doors were also opened with little or no trouble. Dean de Havilland was most helpful, and they left with a list of post-grad students, their addresses and phone numbers. But it was getting late, the sun beginning to set behind the Golden Gate Bridge, which was visible from several buildings on campus and their stomachs were rumbling in the absence of lunch and now supper. It was time to head back.
Cho called as they pulled out of one of the Berkeley parking lots, informing them of their utter lack of progress with Dr. Emil Hamblington, psychiatrist of Mark Mooney. Naturally, the good doctor had claimed doctor-client privilege and refused to co-operate, except to say that his client was a nice young man and had been making remarkable progress on his new medication. Without direct evidence linking medical records to imminent threat, it was almost impossible for any judge to grant a warrant suspending doctor-client privilege, so Cho and Rigsby were also heading back to the downtown office.
Jane, in the passenger seat of the SUV, was busy working on his lists. Lisbon marveled at the fact that he could both read and write in a moving vehicle. Most people got carsick. Jane only got carsick – or any kind of sick – when it suited him.
He folded up his papers and shoved his stub of a pencil behind his ear.
"All done?" she asked.
"Yep," he said.
And nothing else.
She pursed her lips, watching him from the corner of her eye. His arm was up against the window of the car, eyes glassy and unfocused, but she knew that wasn't true. He was focused, alright, but not here, not now, and most certainly not on this case. And once again, she had to give him credit. For a man, it was amazing how he could multi-task.
"I think I'd like to talk to Douglas Rayer," he said finally.
Lisbon smirked, happy to have him back. "Which one?"
"The real one, the psych major one. That one."
"And why?"
"I just want to meet him."
"Do you think he ties in with this somehow?"
"Somehow?" He shrugged. "Obviously."
"Obviously. Right. Anything more specific?"
"Just a hunch."
"Just like going to the pier last night was a hunch."
"Yeh. Like that."
"Where you inexplicably stumbled upon our only suspect, almost got your throat cut, and your head shot off – twice I might add – and ended up in the Bay? That kind of hunch?"
"Yeh. That kind of hunch." He smiled at her. "Only drier."
"No."
"No?"
"No. We're supposed to be meeting the others back at the office."
"Oh. Okay," he sighed. "Never mind…" And gazed off as the campus grew small and golden in the rearview mirror.
Lisbon gripped the steering wheel. "Why do you do that?"
He looked back at her innocently. "Do what? You said no. I said never mind. Ipso facto. Cause and effect."
"No. When you don't get what you want, you sigh or you go all puppy-dog eyes, or you smile and beg all the harder. I raised three brothers to manhood, Jane. You should know by now that those stunts don't work with me."
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to the corner store and the upstairs apartment of Douglas Rayer, graying PhD student at Berkeley. Jane smiled as she knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again. "Mr. Rayer? Agent Lisbon from the CBI. We would like to ask you a few more questions…"
Still no answer.
"Sorry, Jane. He's probably in class or something."
"Perfect." And he slid a piece of wire from his pocket and turned towards the door.
"No," she growled. "No Jane, no. Not while I'm standing here. No way."
"Oh hush, woman. Go call Grace. Make sure there's a new pencil waiting for me. My fingers are getting all cramped up from writing with this one…" The door made a soft bump and click, and he smiled at her.
"And what if there's a dead body in there, huh? What if the real Douglas Rayer is laying on the floor in a pool of his own blood and you just waltz in for an illegal search?"
"Then we say the door was open."
"The door wasn't open."
He pushed. The door swung open. "Yes, it was. It just needed some help."
She peered in and, seeing no dead body lying in a pool of blood, gave him a quick nod. "Don't touch anything."
"Promise." And he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
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The apartment of Douglas Rayer was nice. Academic and messy but nice, and he resisted the urge to head straight over to the bookshelves, where literally hundreds of books lined the walls. Rather, he made fists with his hands inside the pockets of his jacket and forced his eyes to take the room in. Nine foot ceilings, large windows, old hardwood on the floors. Turkish throw rugs and hurricane lamps. Personal photography on the walls, as well as prints of famous paintings. Van Gogh, Picasso, Degas. African printed fabrics on the couch, chairs and bed. All it needed was Pink Floyd and some weed and it would be a student's paradise.
He ambled over to study the pictures on a table by the window. A man, obviously Rayer, with a woman. Rayer with another woman. Rayer with children. Rayer with a teenaged girl. Just the girl now at a birthday party. At her graduation. Rayer now on a camel. Rayer in a whitewater raft. Healthy, happy, normal. Nothing. He headed over to the books.
The man was a psych major, so there were tomes upon tomes of psych text books, abnormal psychology, clinical psychology. One entire shelving unit devoted to psychology textbooks. And classics. The Odyssey and the Illiad mixed in with Dumas' Hunchback of Notre Dame and Beowulf, Jane Eyre and Moby Dick. I-Ching and the Tao of Pooh. A Brief History of Time and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. New classics as well as non-fiction, and Jane was beginning to get the impression that this was a man who not only collected books, but read them. Quick mind, open and curious. Intelligent, amused, boundless. Something was missing, however, and the puzzle was incomplete. He moved on to the next shelf.
Helter Skelter, In Cold Blood, Silence of the Lambs. He swallowed, feeling his pulse begin to quicken. Still, perfectly natural, he told himself. The world of psychology was a mixed-up and dark place, for it was the study of the human mind, which was itself a mixed-up and dark place. Books on Stalin, books on Nazis, books on Asian torture techniques and books on Incan sacrifice. Two entire shelving units devoted to killers and killing. It was disturbing but in the same way that reading Louis L'Amour didn't make one a cowboy, reading crime novels didn't make Douglas Rayer a criminal. He sighed.
Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps, as Minelli had said recently, he was seeing conspiracies in everything, losing his grip on what was real and solid and—
He froze.
It was tucked in between American Psycho and The Complete History of Jack the Ripper, and his heart thudded in his chest. He glanced around, making certain she wasn't in the room, wasn't watching, and he reached for it, realizing with a detached thought that his fingers were shaking.
He slid it out and held it for a moment.
"The Tyger: Collected Works of William Blake."
It didn't belong in this section. In fact, if it had been placed next to Dante's Inferno or More's Utopia, he probably would have skimmed right over it, wouldn't have given it a second thought. But here, in this section on killers and killing, it stood out like a beacon, meaning something only to him.
Meaning everything only to him.
He opened it, making sure there was no inscription on the first page, no happy face drawn in red pen. Nothing, of course. He was the very definition of paranoid. It was a classic and it had been placed on the wrong shelf. Nothing more. Nothing more.
He read the first few lines.
Tyger Tyger Burning Bright
In the forest of the night.
He knew it off by heart. It was killing him, bit by bit, the cryptic poetry of it, the very images of tigers and lambs and red smiley faces blending together in his mind. If it didn't end soon, he was quite certain it would drive him mad and he would be trapped in its world of blood and fire, heaven and hell, forever.
He slid it back in its place, glanced around the room again, half-expecting to see a smiley face, dripping down the wall. But nothing. Of course, nothing. He was being paranoid.
He looked back at the book.
'They' wanted to publish.
'They' were totally into it.
The Silence of the Lambs, Tyger Tyger burning bright, the lamb the victim, the tiger the killer, the same mind had created them both…
Red John's network, here in Berkeley.
A hand on his arm, and he almost jumped out of his shoes.
"Anything?" asked Lisbon, and she frowned at him. "You okay?"
He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling like a puddle. "Yeh. Yeh, fine."
She didn't believe him, he could tell. But she wouldn't pry. She was good that way.
"Did you find anything?"
"We should go."
"Jane?" She peered in closer, her green eyes round and serious. "Are you sure you're okay?"
He could distract her. He needed to, so he tuned ever so slightly, allowing his eyes to wander over the shelves of books. She stepped over, studied the wall of death, drew a deep breath.
"Okay…" she said, lips pursed. "We need to leave. Now."
"Yeh."
And he pushed past her and strode out the door to the apartment. She stayed behind for only a moment before following.
End of Chapter 7