A waitress approached. Fusco motioned her away. Next to his sandwich was a tall glass of cola. He sipped, put the glass down silently.
“Michael Ferris Burke,” he said, as if delivering the title of a poem. “He’s like the AIDS virus: I know what he is, know what he does, but I can’t get hold of him.”
Gazing pleasantly at Milo. I wondered if the AIDS reference went beyond general metaphor.
Milo’s expression said he thought it did. “We’ve all got our problems. Want to fill me in, or just bitch?”
Fusco kept smiling as he reached down to his left and produced a brick-red accordion file folder, two inches thick and fastened with string.
“Copy of the Burke file for your perusal. More accurately, the Rushton file. He went to med school as Michael Ferris Burke, but he was born Grant Huie Rush-ton. There are a few other monikers in between. He likes to reinvent himself.”
“So now he can get a job in Hollywood,” said Milo.
Fusco pushed the file closer. Milo hesitated, then pulled it over and placed it on the seat between us.
Fusco said, “If you want a capsule summary, I’ll give you one.”
“Go ahead.”
The muscles of Fusco’s left eyelid twitched before settling. “Grant Huie Rushton was born forty years ago in Queens, New York. Flushing, to be exact. Full-term birth, no complications, only child. The parents were Philip Walter Rushton, a tool-and-die maker, age twenty-nine, and Lorraine Margaret Huie, twenty-seven, a housewife. When the boy was two, both parents were killed in an accident on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Little Grant was shipped off to Syracuse to be raised by his maternal grandmother, Irma Huie, a widow with a history of alcoholism.”
Fusco’s hands rubbed together. “Logic and psychology tell me Rushton’s problems had to begin early, but getting hold of childhood records that document his pathology has been difficult because he never received professional help. I located some grade-school reports that note ‘disciplinary problems.’ He wasn’t a sociable child, so locating peers who remember him clearly has been a problem. A trip I made to his Syracuse neighborhood several years ago unearthed some people who remember the boy as bright and talented and major-league mean—’malicious’ is the word that keeps cropping up.”
He ticked his left index finger with its right-hand counterpart. “Cruelty to animals, bullying other kids, suspicions of neighborhood pranks and thefts and burglaries. The grandmother was an inept parent, and Grant had free rein. He was smart enough to avoid getting caught, has no juvenile record that I can find. His high-school yearbook entry—a copy’s in there—lists no extracurricular activities or honors. He graduated with a B average, which for him was no challenge, he could’ve done that in his sleep. A few Unsatisfactories in conduct but no suspensions or expulsions.” To me: “You know the data on psychopaths, Doctor. High IQ can be protective. Grant Rushton knew how to keep his impulses under control, even back then. Precisely when he went all the way is unclear, but when he was eighteen, a fourteen-year-old girl—a neighbor—disappeared. Her body was found two months later in a forested area on the outskirts of town. Decomposition was advanced and precise cause of death was never determined, but the autopsy did reveal head trauma and neck wounds and sexual exploration without actual rape. The investigation never got very far and no suspects were ever named.”
“Was Rushton questioned?” said Milo.
“No. After the girl—Jennifer Chapelle—was found, Rushton graduated and joined the navy. Basic training in California—Oceanside. Honorable discharge after only two months. Military records have proven to be less than precise. All I’ve been able to learn is that he went AWOL once and they let him go.”
“That merits honorable?” I said.
“In a volunteer military, sometimes it does. During the time he was stationed at Oceanside, a prostitute named Kristen Strunk was chopped up and dumped a mile from the base. Another unsolved.”
“Same question,” said Milo. “Was Rushton ever considered a suspect?”
Fusco shook his head. “Bear with me. After his discharge, Grant Rushton died: single-car crash off the old Route 66 in Nevada. Burned-up auto, charred corpse.
Same death as his parents,” I said. Fusco’s sad eyes glowed.