“Depressed?” I said.
“You’re the psychologist,” said Shull. “But yes, I’d have to say so. Now that I think about it, I never saw him smile. I tried to draw him out. He wasn’t much for casual conversation.”
“Intense.”
Shull nodded. “Definitely intense. Serious kid, no sense of humor that I ever noticed.”
“What were his interests?”
“Hmm,” said Shull. “I’d have to say pop culture. Which would describe half our students. They’re products of their upbringing.”
“What do you mean?”
“The zeitgeist,” said Shull. “If your parents were anything like mine, you got some grounding in books, theater, art. Today’s undergrads are likely to grow up in homes where episodic TV’s the entertainment of choice. It’s a little tough getting them jazzed about quality.”
My childhood had been grounded in silence and gin. I said, “What aspects of pop culture interested Kevin?”
“All of it. Music, art. In that sense, he fit the department perfectly. Elizabeth Martin dictates that we take a holistic approach. Art as a general rubric, the interface of the art world with other aspects of the culture.”
“Medium-bright,” I said.
“Don’t ask me to tell you his grades. That’s a definite no-no.”
“How about a ballpark appraisal?”
Shull turned toward the tree-filled window, rubbed his head, loosened his tie. “We’ve moved onto touchy ground, my friend. The college is adamant about protecting grade confidentiality.”
“Would it be fair to call him a mediocre student?”
Shull laughed very softly. “Okay, let’s go with that.”
“Was there a change in his grade pattern over time?”
Shull hesitated. “I might possibly recall a slight drop in effort toward the end of his stay here.”
“When?”
“The last couple of years.”
Right after Angelique Bernet’s murder. Sometime before he’d graduated, Kevin Drummond had conceived GrooveRat.
I said, “Are you aware that Kevin tried his hand at publishing?”
“Oh, that,” said Shull. “His zine.”
“You saw it?”
“He talked to me about it. In fact, it was the only time I ever saw him get animated.”
“He never showed you the zine?”
“He showed me some articles he’d written.” Shull’s smile was crooked, rueful. “He was needy for praise. I tried to comply.”
“But his writing wasn’t praiseworthy,” I said.
Shull shrugged. “He was a kid. He wrote like a kid.”
“Meaning?”
“Sophomoric—junioromoric, seniormoric. I get a steady diet of it. Which is fine. Any craft takes time to develop. The only difference between Kevin and hundreds of other kids is that he thought he was ready for the big time.”
“Did you let him know he wasn’t?”
“Lord, no,” said Shull. “Why would I shatter his confidence, a troubled kid like that? I knew the world would do that to him, all by itself.”
“A troubled kid,” I said.
“You’re telling me he’s involved in murder.” Shull returned to his chair. “I really don’t want to bad-mouth him. He was quiet, a little weird, a little delusional about his talent. That’s all. I don’t want to make him sound like a maniac. He wasn’t that different from other nerdy-types I’ve seen.”
He placed his elbows on the desk and looked at me earnestly. “There’s no way you could give me any details, is there? My old journalistic impulses are coming to the fore.”
“Sorry,” I said. “So you went from journalism to academia.”
“Academia has its charms,” said Shull.
“What else can you tell me about Kevin?”
“That’s really it. And I’ve got office hours in a few minutes.”
“I won’t take much more of your time, Professor. What else can you tell me about Kevin’s publishing dreams?”
Shull pulled on his chin. “Once he got on the publishing kick—his senior year—it was all he could talk about. Kids are like that.”
“Like what?”
“Obsessive. We accept them to college and call them adults but they’re really still adolescents, and adolescents obsess. Entire industries have been built on that fact.”
“What was Kevin obsessed with?”
“Success, I suppose.”
“Did he have a particular point of view?”
“With regard to what?”
“Art.”
“Art,” echoed Shull. “Once again, we’re talking adolescent attitudes. Kevin adhered to the seminal sophomoric belief.”
“What’s that?”
“Anticommercialism. If it sells, it sucks. Basic dorm-debate stuff.”
“He told you that.”