“Probably?” said Milo. “Just like that?”
“There’ve been no complaints, but it certainly wouldn’t surprise me. Most of the students who take advantage of Gordon’s office hours seem to be female.”
“But there’ve been no actual sexual harassment complaints.”
“No,” said Martin. “Faculty-student sex is a fixture of college life and complaints are very rare. For the most part, it’s consensual. Isn’t that so, Professor Delaware?”
I nodded.
“Kevin Drummond’s gay,” said Milo. “Should we be looking at that?”
“You’re asking if Gordon’s bisexual?” said Martin. “Well, I haven’t picked up on that, but the truth is nothing you’d tell me about him would surprise me. He’s what used to be referred to as a scoundrel. Nice word, that. Too bad it’s fallen out of usage. He’s your prototypical spoiled brat, he bounces along, doing exactly what he pleases. Have you met his mother?”
“Not yet.”
Martin smiled. “You really should. Especially you, Professor Delaware. Right up your alley.”
“A font of psychopathology?” said Milo.
Martin regarded him with a long, amused look. “The woman’s devoid of basic courtesy and simple good sense. Every year at the endowment luncheon she corrals me and reminds me how much money her husband’s doled out, then she proceeds to lecture me about the wondrous accomplishments of her baby boy. Gordon comes by his pretentiousness honestly. She presents herself as so-ciety, but from what I’ve gathered, her first husband—Gordon’s real father—was a drunk. An unsuccessful real estate agent who spent time in prison for fraud. Both he and Gordon’s brother died in a house fire when Gordon was young and a few years later, the mother found herself a sugar daddy.”
Milo scrawled in his pad.
Martin said, “This has been educational, but I’m tired. If that’s all—”
“If you’ve got a writing sample from Shull, that would be helpful.”
“Back at my office,” she said. “I’ve got his latest end-of-year self-assessment. Every faculty member’s required to submit one—listing accomplishments, goals. Gordon’s is a formality because we both know he’s got life tenure.”
“Maybe not,” said Milo.
“What a lovely thought,” said Martin. “I’ll come in early tomorrow, messenger it to you first thing.”
She saw us to the door, and Milo thanked her.
“My pleasure,” she said. “Really . . . you know, now that I think about it, Gordon’s being a murderer doesn’t really surprise me all that much.”
“Why’s that, ma’am?”
“Someone that false, that shallow, could do anything.”
42
Petra was having a decent night.
The air was cool, the sky was a velvety purple-black where Hollywood neon didn’t bleach it gray, and A. Gordon Shull was well known at clubs and dives and alternative bookstores.
The recollections of a hungover barkeep at the Screw, a rancid thrash-metal cave on Vermont, were typical:
Yeah, I seen him. Wears black and tries to pick up young chicks.
Does he succeed?
Maybe, sometimes.
Any girl in particular?
They’re all the same.
What else can you tell me about him?
Just an old guy trying to be cool—y’know.
I know what?
It’s the way things go.
A whole different ball game than her futile attempts to find any links to Kevin Drummond. But something gave her pause: none of the sightings paired Shull with Kevin. Was the younger man even involved in the bad stuff?
Despite the IDs, her attempts to link Shull specifically to dope, violent tendencies, aberrant sex, or Erna Murphy were unsuccessful. By shift’s end, she realized it added up to very little they could use in the short term, and she felt her mood sinking. Then she got a little gift from God: During her first pass down Fountain Avenue, the Snake Pit had been closed—NO SHOW TONIGHT—but when she passed by on the way to the station, she spotted cars parked in front and a door left slightly ajar.
She went in and encountered a fat, ponytailed bouncer nursing a gin and tonic. The place smelled like a toilet.
“Closed,” the fat guy told her. “Maintenance.”
That meant him standing around guzzling and a diminutive man who looked like a rain forest Indian sweeping the sticky floor. Music—some kind of harmonica-driven, bass-heavy Chicago blues—blared on the sound system. Bare, plywood tables were arranged haphazardly. A drum kit sat on the stage. A microphone stand with no mike looked decapitated. Nothing sadder than a dive without patrons.