Chapter 12

Billings phoned at about 7:30. The letter had arrived and I'd get to read it in the morning. He had also spoken to someone in the federal government: Immigration and Naturalization Service knew of no connection at all where illegal aliens were concerned with State; moreover, he'd checked with the Narcotics Squad and drawn another blank. Sure, pot and hash and pills and some coke were around, but there were no suspicions of a major nexus on campus. I suggested we meet in "my" seminar room. Billings suggested 10.

Then I phoned Jim, filled him in on most of what had transpired and suggested lunch (after Billings). He agreed with alacrity.

Ann hadn't been interested in Mike's Haggards -- she already had two Maiwa's Revenge ("the black and the green") and a Mr. Meeson's Will. But she thought the latter might have been something for Gillespie -- "after all," she said, "aren't s&m types into tattooing? The will is a tattoo." So I told Mike's machine that she wasn't interested and told him to meet me and Alice at her office at 1:30 on Wednesday. And gave him the room number.

In the morning, on the bus, I began reading Nan's papers (I was living a medley of Stones' songs: "Who wants yesterday's papers?," "Let's spend the night together" and "You can't always get what you want" all got jumbled together. But T.S. Eliot was there as well, "mixing memory with desire," and Dylan Thomas' "force that through the green fuze drives the flower, drives my green age." By the time I got to State, I was musing about that "green age," about Ann and Nan, Nan and Ann ... and anagram ... and I hadn't even skimmed the first Peacock essay).

I headed for "my" seminar room to sit and read for an hour until Billings arrived. I went to look for that Meredith paper, but the volume still wasn't there.

Upstairs, I began to read about the characters of Gryll Grange. They sounded funny enough; and Nan had clearly read the book several times and read some Peacock literature. It was a good, strong paper, but not exactly inspired. Then again, what was I comparing it to? It was as good as several of Alice's publications. Gillespie had caught every typo and every infelicity. But he had given Nan an A. Suddenly I realized that I'd not responded to Irv's letter. I left everything and went down the hall to beg for use of a phone.

The young woman looked startled, as though I were the harbinger of another corpse (like an owl in Macbeth?), but I assured her I was just going to phone Comp. Lit. I called, told the secretary that I'd continue to serve, and she said she'd deliver the message. I asked when her boss would be in, learned that he was free in the afternoon, and made an appointment for three. I was back in my seat when the janitor appeared.

"Mornin'," he said. "Here again."

"Hi. How's it going today?"

"Pretty good. When it rains in a month or so, there'll be mud all over. An' that's all gotta be cleaned up. But when it's dry, there's only butts an' papers an' gum wrappers an' empty cups. An' that's easy."

"This room must be easy."

"Yeah. 'Specially when you're the only one using it." He ran his hand along the bottom edge of the table. "Damn!"

"Splinter?"

"Nah. Chewin' gum. They chew an' when they're done they stick it under the table. Then we gotta scrape it off." I realized that "we" meant the janitorial staff.

"Scrape it off?"

"Yeah. I useta use a little kitchen knife. But I lost it. I'll bring sumptin' tomorrow though. Well, see ya."

"So long." He left. And left me thinking. This was the guy who thought Gillespie was a pig. So, last Monday he came in here around 9:30, as he did everyday in his rounds. And Gillespie crumpled a piece of paper and tossed it on the floor or made some derogatory remark. And when the janitor worked himself around so that he was behind Gillespie, he took the kitchen knife he had with him, the one he used to scrape chewing gum from the tables, and stabbed Gillespie. Perhaps he had been wearing gloves. Maybe he wrapped the hilt in a paper towel. Billings said there'd been a bit of chewing gum between the blade and the hilt. The wheels in my head were really whirring. And who would have noticed him? The kids in the hall? The secretary? No. He was like Poe's purloined letter -- in plain view. No one would have seen him. Sir Henry Merrivale would have been proud: opportunity, motive, means. The janitor in the seminar room with a knife.

The door opened and Billings arrived.

"Hi," he began, "I've got that letter."

"Hi. We don't need the letter. I think I've got it!"

"Really?"

"The janitor!"

"The janitor?"

"Look. Let me explain it to you." Billings sat down and I went at it for about 20 minutes. It took him under five to demolish my house of cards.

"I like it." He smiled.

"You like it?"

"Yep. You see we knew that Fred lost his knife about three weeks ago, because he reported it lost. One of the boys has seen the form. Second, we knew that Fred wasn't here last Monday. He was on vacation. For some reason, he'd only taken 15 days this year. So the state owed him one. Anyway, he was with his wife and 32 others on a day trip to Hearst Castle. So there are over two dozen witnesses as to where he was all morning. And the bus got back to San Diego at 4:30. But, as I said, I like your theory. It shows that I was right. You took a whole bunch of stuff and put it together in a neat way. The fact that it's wrong shouldn't bother you. And now we can get to work on a different solution. He smiled again. "Do you ever do tangrams?"

"Tangrams?"

"What the Chinese call seven-board. It's a square cut into seven pieces. The trick is to make pictures with the pieces."

"Oh, yeah. I've seen them. My daughter has a plastic set."

"Well, this is a bigger tangram puzzle. You've made one picture; now we'll try to make another. Eventually we'll make the right one."

"Pretty philosophical for a cop."

"That's 'dumb cop, ' if you don't mind."

I laughed. "Hey, I don't even know your name."

"Folks don't." He paused. "It's Sherman. My folks heard about Sherman Billingsley, who ran something famous in New York. So I'm Sherman Billings. My wife calls me Loot."

"Loot?"

"For Lieutenant."

"OK, Loot. And I'm Burt."

"Fine, Burt. Now it's my turn. Here's the letter."

San Diego, October 10

Dear Brother Timothy,

I'm writing this with great difficulty, great pain. No, don't worry, not physical pain -- I could take aspirin or see a physician if that were it. I have discovered that one of my colleagues, someone with whom I have worked for years, has committed a crime. One of the gravest crimes I can imagine for someone to whom the well-being of the young is entrusted.

I have told no one of my discovery, which came over the summer. Actually, I began thinking of the possibility over a year ago, as the result of a fortuitous discovery. But it was only in August that I became certain.

I am not sure just what I should do. I am loath to go to the dean or the chairman or the police. Yet I feel I must do something. I have considered confrontation, but have not mustered the internal strength that would be necessary for that.

From the spatial distance and your spiritual distance, perhaps you can see my dilemma from a different perspective. I hope you can. Tell me what I should do.

God bless you,

Cyrus

P.S. They killed Socrates for perverting the youth, didn't they?

I handed the paper back to Loot.

"What do you make of it?" he asked.

"I think he confronted whoever and paid for it."

"Yep. And that eliminates Fred, too."

"How?"

"You think a snob like Gillespie would call a janitor a 'colleague'?"

"No. You're right. I think it must be someone from the Department. But not Nick, because Gillespie wouldn't have considered going to him then."

"Could it have been a student?"