Four women stood by the watercooler, all blandly attractive, ranging from mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Each wore a variant of sweater-and-pants, and it came across as a uniform. Dugger rattled off names: Jilda Thornburgh, Sally Patrino, Katie Weissenborn, Ann Buyler. The first three were research assistants. Buyler, the secretary, was already equipped with Lauren’s time cards.
Milo flipped through them, began questioning the women. Yes, they remembered Lauren. No, they didn’t know her well, had no idea who would have wanted to hurt her. The word punctual kept coming up. As they talked to Milo I searched for signs of evasiveness, saw only the discomfiture you’d expect from honest people confronted with murder. Ben Dugger had retreated to a cubicle dominated by a large, framed zoo association poster—koalas, cute and cuddly—and had turned his back to us.
Occasionally, one or more of the women looked his way, as if for support.
The women.
Surrounding himself with females.
Like father, like son?
Milo said, “Dr. Dugger? If you don’t mind, Fd like to see that room— the one where Lauren worked.”
Dugger turned. “Certainly.”
As he walked toward us Milo said, “Oh yeah, one more thing, gang. Shawna Yeager. Anyone by that name ever work here?”
Four headshakes.
“You’re sure?” said Milo. “Not as a subject or a confederate or anything else?”
Dugger said, “Who?” Milo repeated the name.
“No,” said Dugger, eyes steady. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Ann?”
Buyler said, “I’m sure, but I’ll check.” She pecked at her computer keyboard, called up a screen, manipulated the mouse. “No. No Shawna Yeager.”
“Who is she?” Dugger asked Milo.
“A girl.”
“So I gathered, Detective—”
“Let’s see that room,” said Milo. “Then I don’t need to waste any more of your time.”
20
BACK IN THE inner lobby Milo said, “So who’re your clients?”
“You’re not thinking of contacting them,” said Dugger.
“Not unless the need arises.”
“It won’t.” Dugger’s voice had grown sharp.
“I’m sure you’re right, sir.”
“I am, Detective. But why do I get the feeling you still suspect me of something?”
“Not so, Doctor. Just—”
“Routine?” said Dugger. “I really wish you’d stop wasting your time here and go out looking for Lauren’s killer.”
“Any suggestions where?” said Milo.
“How would I know? I just know you’re wasting your time here. And as far as clients go, in terms of the intimacy study there isn’t one. It’s a long-term interest of mine, goes back to graduate school. Our commercial projects tend to be much shorter—attitudinal focus groups, a specific product, that kind of thing. We work on a contractual basis, the timing’s irregular. When we’re in between projects, I focus back on the intimacy study.”
“And now’s one of those times,” said Milo.
“Yes. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about clients to the staff. I’ve assured the women that their jobs are secure for the time being, but with the move …”
“You may be revamping. So you’re financing the intimacy study on your own?”
“There isn’t much expense,” said Dugger. “That woman you mentioned—Shawna. Was she murdered as well?”
“It’s possible.”
“My God. So this— You’re thinking Lauren could’ve been part of something?”
“Part, sir?”
“A mass murderer—a serial killer, pardon the expression.”
Milo jammed his hands into his pockets. “You don’t like the term, Doctor?”
“It’s a cliche,” said Dugger. “The stuff of bad movies.”
“Doesn’t make it any less real when it happens though, does it, sir?”
“I suppose not— Do you really think that’s what happened to Lauren? Some psychopathic creep?” Dugger’s voice had risen, and he was standing taller. Assertive. Aggressive. Locking eyes with Milo.
Milo said, “Any tips in that regard—speaking as a psychologist?”
“No,” said Dugger. “As I told you before, abnormal psychology’s not my interest. Never has been.”
“How come?”
“I prefer to study normal phenomena. This world— We need to emphasize what’s right, not what’s wrong. Now I’ll show you my room.”
Ten by ten, sand-colored walls, matching acoustical tile ceiling, the same kind of canvas chairs as in front, similar coffee tables but no magazines, no pictures. Dugger peeled back a corner of the carpet and exposed a series of stainless steel slats bolted to a cement floor. Soldered to some of the panels were wires and leads and what looked like integrated circuit boards.