“ ‘Nothing human is foreign to me,’ ”I said.
She smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitman,” she said. “On the other hand, rape and murder are human, too.”
“Okay, we’ll give Walt some poetic license,” I said.
“To me it’s more a matter of degree, and effect.”
I poured some safflower oil into my big frying pan, and let it heat.
“Like booze,” I said.
“Yes,” Susan said. “You like to drink. But you can choose not to. You can stop when it’s appropriate. It doesn’t interfere with your work, or our relationship, or anything else. But if you had to drink and couldn’t stop and it was screwing up your life, and mine, then you have an illness, alcoholism, and you’d need help.”
“So if I’m that way about sex, have to have it, can’t restrain myself, force myself on people . . .”
“That’s just you being you,” Susan said.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
She laughed.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said.
“Maybe you have an illness?” I said.
“No doubt,” she said. “But your analogy is apt. If you are, so to speak, a sexual alcoholic, then you have an illness, and you need help.”
“Would someone like that be likely to seek help?”
“I don’t know. Most people with whatever problem don’t seek shrink help. I’ve had very few cases of either men or women with out-of-control sexual issues.”
“Would men be likely to seek help from a woman?” I said.
“They might,” Susan said. “It might excite them to think of talking about it with a woman. Are you thinking Prince sought help?”
“I don’t know. Certainly the college would have a shrink on retainer, wouldn’t they?”
“Most colleges do,” Susan said. “Why are you investigating Prince so carefully? He’s the victim.”
With a pair of tongs, I began to place the batter-coated apple rings into the hot oil.
“The fact that they planned ahead of time to kill him makes me wonder a little,” I said.
“Because they prepared the bomb and everything?” Susan said.
“Yeah,” I said. “They didn’t improvise that at the spur of the moment.”
“No,” Susan said. “Of course.”
“And,” I said, “more important, he’s all I’ve got. I don’t investigate him, and I may as well be sitting on the dock of the bay.”
“Yes,” Susan said. “It’s not so different than what I do.”
I took a few fritters out of the fry pan, added a little oil, let it heat, and placed a few more rings in there.
“Why so few at a time?” Susan said. “There’s room for more.”
“You crowd them and they don’t come out right,” I said.
“I didn’t know that,” Susan said.
“You would if you needed to,” I said.
“Would Rita?”
“Not as well as you would,” I said.
“Right answer,” Susan said.
“No fool I.”
16
The fax from Crosby finally arrived in my office on Monday morning. There were eight names on it. Three of them were women. One of them was Melissa Minor. I sat back in my chair. Melissa Minor. Minor wasn’t an exotic name. But it wasn’t particularly common, either. I could not remember, in the course of my lifetime, meeting anyone named Minor. And now on the same case in a matter of days I encounter two?
I swiveled around and picked up my phone and called Crosby.
“Spenser,” I said. “Thanks for the fax.”
“Maybe I’ll change the department motto,” Crosby said. “Stay mum and be helpful?”
“Needs work,” I said. “Can you get me the name of Melissa Minor’s mother?”
“Who’s Melissa Minor?”
“One of the students in Prince’s seminar,” I said.
“Oh, hell, I didn’t even read the list,” Crosby said. “When they sent it to me, I had my secretary fax it on over.”
“Sure,” I said. “Can you get me her mother’s name?”
“Yeah, they’ll have that.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Where they probably send the tuition bill.”
“Lemme know,” I said.
“Call you back,” Crosby said. “This is exciting. I almost feel like a cop.”
“Try to remain calm,” I said.
We hung up.
While I waited, I looked out my window at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston. While I’d been spinning my wheels, we’d settled into December, and every commercial enterprise that would support a Christmas decoration had several. It hadn’t snowed yet. But it was cold, and the young women who worked in the area were bundled up so that it was less fun to watch them walk by than it was in the summer. But it wasn’t no fun. And though my commitment to Susan was absolute, that was no reason not to survey the landscape.
The phone rang.
“Mother’s name is Winifred Minor,” Crosby said. “No father listed. Mother lives in Charlestown. Employed at Shawmut Insurance on Columbus Ave.”
“You know if the father’s deceased?” I said.
“Don’t know nothing about the father,” Crosby said. “I asked about that. Told me in the admissions office that when she filled out the forms she simply drew a line in the space where it said ‘father’s name.’ ”
“What’s the address?” I said.
Crosby gave it to me. I thanked him and hung up. I sat for a while, looking at nothing. Then I got up and walked around my office, which isn’t really big enough for walking. I stood at my window and looked down at Berkeley Street. Then I sat down again. The more information I got, the less I understood.
“Hello,” I said to no one. “Any Minotaurs in there?”
17
I was lingering as inconspicuously as I could on the second floor of the Fine Arts building, outside the room where the “Low-Country Realism” seminar was finishing up. Since I was the only person in the corridor at the moment, I was about as inconspicuous as a wolverine in a hair salon. But, master of disguise that I am, I was carrying Simon Schama’s book on Rembrandt under my arm.
No one paid much attention to me as class let out. It was a no-brainer. There was only one tall blonde, and except for hair color, which is not immutable, she looked very much like her mother. She was wearing a thick white cable-knit sweater that looked a couple of sizes too big for her. Below the sweater were very tight black jeans. The jeans were tucked into high tan boots with white fur trim around the tops. If she was dressing like an artist, it was a successful artist. The boots cost more than everything I was wearing, including my gun. Over her left arm she was carrying a fleece-lined leather coat with a fleece collar. She had neither books nor a notebook. She was talking with the other two girls when I interrupted.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Melissa?”
“Missy,” she said, as if the correction was automatic.
“Missy Minor,” I said. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Who are you?” she said.
“My name is Spenser,” I said. “I’m a detective.”
“Is it about Dr. Prince?” Missy said.
The two girls with her were both shorter than Missy. One wore a sweatshirt with a Red Sox logo. The other had on a short plaid skirt and cowboy boots.
“Yes,” I said, and turned to the two other girls. “What are your names?”
“Sandy Wilson,” the one in the sweatshirt said.
“Bev DeCarlo,” the other one said.
“I don’t know anything,” Missy said.
“Me, either,” Sandy said.
“I told the other policeman I don’t know anything,” Bev said.
“Don’t be so hard on yourselves,” I said. “You had class with him for nearly a semester. I’ll bet you know a lot.”
“I gotta go,” Missy said. “I got another class.”
“At five o’clock?” I said.