“Got a point, there,” said Chet. “Karl Marx violent overthrow all those other
Semites semiotics antibiotics no that was Fleming no Jew a Scot-”
“The Jews did it,” Stocking Cap repeated.
Dollard said, “Enough of that, Randall.”
Chet said, “Maybe valid Jack the Ripper writing on the wall the Jews are the men who didn’t not do it or somesuch doubletriplenegative which in the alternate universe parallel systems parallelograms dodecahedrons you never know any-thing’s possible-”
“RandalFs a racist asshole,” said Jackson. “He don’t know shit and neither do you.”
He showed teeth again, began picking at his cuticles.
Dollard glared at us. Look what you ve done.
“Randall’s a racist motherfucker,” said Jackson matter-of-factly.
Randall didn’t react. Paz and the freckled black man remained asleep.
“One more word out of you, Jackson,” said Dollard, “and it’s S&R.”
Jackson fidgeted wildly for several seconds, but he kept silent.
Dollard turned to Milo: “Finish up.”
Milo looked at me. I moved next to him. “So, Dr. Argent was working with you guys.”
Kindly Grandpa said, “Would you be so kind as to inform us exactly what exactly happened to the poor woman?”
Dollard said, “We’ve already been through that, Holtzmann.”
“I realize that, Mr. Dollard,” said Holtzmann. “She was murdered. How tragic. But perhaps if we knew the details we could assist these police officers.”
Gentle voice. Twinkly blue eyes. Coherent. What had gotten him in here?
“I gave you all the details you need to know,” said Dollard.
Paz’s eyes opened. And closed. Someone passed wind and the stink floated through the room, then dissipated.
Randall’s head raised an inch. His fists began grinding into his skull. The stocking cap was filthy. The hand slipped down a bit and I saw that the skin around his temples was red and raw, scabbed in places.
I said, “If there’s anything-”
“How did it happen?” said Grandpa Holtzmann. “Was she shot? If so, was it a handgun or a long gun?”
“She wasn’t shot,” said Dollard. “And that’s all you need to-”
“Stabbed, then?” said Holtzmann.
“What does it matter, Holtzmann?”
“Well,” said the old man, “if we’re to be of assist-”
Chet said, “The modus is always a clue signature profile-wise psychological penmanship so to speak to squeak-”
“Was she stabbed?” said Holtzmann, pressing forward so that the desk bit into his trunk.
“Holtzmann,” said Dollard, “there’s no reason for-”
“She was stabbed!” the old man exclaimed. “Fileted to the bone, hallelujah!” Working at his zipper with both hands, he exposed himself, began masturbating frantically.
Singing out in a fine rich baritone: “Stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, glory be! Gut the bitch in pieces three!”
Dollard took him roughly by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door.
To us, “You, too. Out. Meeting over.”
As we exited, Chet shouted, “Wait I’ve solved it cherchez la femme cherchez la femme-!”
Outside, Dollard locked the door to the annex and handed Holtzmann over to the other two techs. The old man simpered but looked thrilled.
The taller tech said, “Tuck yourself in. Now.”
Holtzmann obeyed, dropped his hands to his side.
“Nice to meet you.” Kindly Grandpa again. “Mr. Dollard, if I’ve offended-”
“Don’t say another damn word,” Dollard ordered him. To the techs: “Keep them in there while I deal with these two. I’ll send Mills back to help you.”
The techs moved Holtzmann to the wall, had him face the stucco. “Don’t budge, old man.” Pointing at the door, one of them said, “They okay in there, Frank?”
“Chet Bodine’s running his mouth like a broken toilet and Jackson’s ticked at him.
At Randall, too-he’s doing the Aryan crap.”
“Really?” said the tech lightly. “Haven’t heard that in a while, thought we had it under control.”
“Yeah,” said Dollard. “Something must have tensed them all up.”
When we were back at the main building, he said, “Now, that was a good expenditure of taxpayers’ money.”
Milo said, “I want to see Peake.”
“And I want to fuck Sharon Stone-”
“Take me to Peake, Frank.”
“Oh, sure, just like that. Who the hell do you think-” Again, Dollard checked his anger. Chuckled. “That requires authorization, Detective. Meaning Mr. Swig, and, like I said, he’s not-“