Darkroom (4 page)

On his way to the faculty room, Jim was stopped by Sue-Marie. ‘I just wanted to say welcome back, sir,' she said, showing him a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

‘That's very nice of you. Rosemary, isn't it?'

‘Sue-Marie.'

‘I'm sorry. Give me a couple of days and I'll have all of your names off pat.'

‘What you said in class today … it really made me think. You know, about life, and death, and stuff like that.'

‘I hope you didn't find it depressing.'

Sue-Marie shook her fine blonde hair. ‘Oh, no. It was like
karmic
, you know? I felt like you really understand me.'

‘Well, I'm pleased about that. At least I understand
somebody
.'

Sue-Marie looked into his eyes and slowly blinked, and her eyelashes were like two black hawkmoths settling on her cheeks. ‘You're still feeling pain, sir, aren't you?'

‘I'm sorry, Sue-Marie. Like I said in class, that's something I'm not ready to discuss, right at this moment.'

‘If there's anything I can ever do to help … If you just need somebody to listen …'

‘Sure,' said Jim. ‘That's very … considerate of you.'

He watched Sue-Marie walk off along the corridor to join her friends, wiggling her bottom in her little blue pleated skirt. She looked back once and smiled at him coquettishly. He smiled back at her in what he hoped was a mature, trustworthy way, as if she could sit on his knee and blow in his ear and still be confident that he wouldn't compromise the teacher–student relationship. Actually, he wasn't at all interested in flirtatious students, not at the moment. He was more concerned about putting together the bits and pieces of his disassembled life, and finding himself someplace to live.

He pushed open the door to the faculty room. It was crowded with beaten-up armchairs and sagging couches and teachers that he didn't know. His old favorite armchair by the window was occupied by a large black lady in a print frock covered with African zigzags. She was talking to Hector Lo, the deputy head of business studies, and jabbing her finger into the armrest with every point she made.

‘We have to make it clear to
all
of our students – white, black, Asian, lesbian or gay – that they have a
right
to be rich!'

Hector Lo was nodding in the calm, appreciative way he always nodded. Jim knew from experience that he wasn't even listening.

He was making his way toward a chair in the opposite corner when a voice called out: ‘Jim! Hey, Jim! You finally made it!' He turned around and it was Vinnie Boschetto, from the history department. Vinnie looked more like an extra from
Miami Vice
than a teacher of nineteenth-century politics. He had black, fashionably gelled-up hair, a deeply tanned face with a bulbous nose, and he was wearing one of his trademark Hawaiian shirts, all orchids and humming-birds and pineapples.

He threw his arms around Jim and clapped him on the back. He smelled strongly of Armani aftershave. ‘When you didn't show up last week, we thought you'd chickened out. Wouldn't have blamed you, not one bit! This place hasn't changed. It's still the blind leading the dumb, closely followed by the very stupid.'

‘Good to see you, Vinnie. How's Mitzi?'

Vinnie gave a theatrical cough into his fist. ‘Ah-hem! Mitzi was three partners ago, I'm ashamed to admit. Or was it four? Lovely girl, Mitzi.
Great
girl. Unparalleled legs. Well, they
were
parallel, but there were no legs like them. But you know how it is. We didn't see eye to eye on matters pertaining to the U.S. Constitution. Such as my constitutional freedom to play poker with the boys every Friday night.'

‘So who is it now?'

‘Alana. She's gorgeous. We'll have to go out together, you and me and Alana. I've found this really terrific Namibian restaurant on Pico. You don't have any qualms about eating ants, do you?'

‘Ants? What do you think I am – an aardvark?'

‘Oh, come on. I'm not talking about those teensy-weensy little guys you find swarming out of the cracks in the sidewalk. I'm talking about big fat ones, specially fed on sugar. They're terrific with a chili dip. They just go
pop
in your mouth. Delicious!'

‘I think I'll stick to burritos, if it's all the same to you.' Jim sat down, opened up his cellphone and took out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Right now I'm trying to find myself an apartment. All my books are in storage and my cat has probably forgotten who I am.'

‘You want someplace to live? Search no further! My uncle passed away last month and his apartment is standing empty. I've been planning on letting it out, but I haven't had the time to get it organized. Alana, you know … she's kind of demanding. What am I saying,
kind of
demanding? Ha! She won't give me a moment's peace! You'll love this apartment! It's fully furnished; all it needs is cleaning and airing and maybe a lick of paint.'

‘Where is it?' asked Jim dubiously.

‘Venice, only a couple of blocks from where you used to live before. The Benandanti Building. It's great. You'll love it. Four bedrooms, a hu-u-uge living room, a dining room, a kitchen and a bathroom like Emperor Nero's.'

‘Sorry, Vinnie. A place like that has to be way out of my price range. I can only afford eight hundred dollars a month, at most.'

‘Don't be stupid! You can have it for seven fifty! So long as you pay me in cash, no paperwork, no questions asked, and you keep the joint in good repair. At least I'll have a tenant that I can trust.'

‘Seven fifty?' Jim closed his cellphone. ‘Do you think I could take a look at it?'

‘Sure thing. How about tomorrow at twelve?'

‘Absolutely.'

Jim was about to ask him about all the changes that had taken place at West Grove College in the past three years. But then the door of the faculty room opened and Mrs Frogg, the principal's secretary, peered in. She caught sight of Jim and beckoned, furtively, as if she didn't want anybody else to see her. ‘Excuse me a minute,' he told Vinnie. ‘Medusa calls.'

They called Mrs Frogg Medusa because of her gray, snake-like hair and her pale-green bulging eyes. Vinnie reckoned that all of the white marble figures that supported the front of West Grove Community College were former members of staff who had dared to talk back to Mrs Frogg, and whom she had instantly turned to stone.

‘Something I can help you with?' Jim asked her.

‘Dr Ehrlichman wishes you to come to his office, Mr Rook. There is a police detective who would like to have words with you.'

‘A police detective? What about?'

‘Not for me to say, Mr Rook.'

Jim turned and gave a brief wave to Vinnie, tapping his wristwatch to indicate that he was definitely going to keep their appointment tomorrow. Mrs Frogg wordlessly led the way along the corridor, her rubber-soled shoes squelching. She made Jim feel as if he were thirteen years old again, summoned to the principal's office for blocking up the water fountains with blotting paper.

Mrs Frogg knocked and an irritable voice called out, ‘Yes, yes! Come on in!' When Jim went in, Dr Ehrlichman was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his bright-green necktie askew, looking troubled. He was small and bald. He wore old-fashioned, heavy-rimmed spectacles, and he had a large, hooked nose and a little bristly moustache. He looked as if he had bought spectacles, nose and moustache, all joined together, from a magic store. But it was the man standing by the window with his back turned who immediately caught Jim's attention. He was almost square – with shoulders so broad that they had strained the stitching of his crumpled tan coat – and short, stocky legs. He had a wiry tangle of sandy-colored hair and dandruff on his collar.

‘Well, well,' said Jim. ‘Lieutenant Harris. I thought I read in the paper that you retired.'

Lieutenant Harris turned around. Although Dr Ehrlichman's office was air-conditioned, his face was crimson and he was sweating. ‘I decided to stay on for another three years. If you knew my wife, you'd understand why. How about you, Mr Rook? I thought you'd gone for good.'

‘I went to Washington, yes, but things didn't really work out.'

‘Sorry to hear that. I can't truthfully say that I'm delighted to see you back.'

‘Thanks. Good to see you again, too.'

Lieutenant Harris managed a sweaty smile. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Rook. It's just that whenever you're around … it seems like spooky things start to happen.'

‘Spooky things happen all the time, Lieutenant.
Life
is generally spooky. Maybe you're more aware of life's general spookiness when I'm around, because you think
I'm
spooky.' He paused, and when Lieutenant Harris didn't answer, he said, ‘What's the problem this time?'

Lieutenant Harris took out his notebook, licked his finger and turned over two pages. ‘Two students of yours – Robert Tubbs and Sara Miller …'

‘I'm sorry – this is my first day today. I haven't had the chance to get to know any of my students yet, not by name.'

‘These two, you never will. At nine thirty this morning they were both found dead.'

‘Oh, God. I'm sorry. How did it happen?'

‘Very spookily, which is why I wanted to talk to you.'

‘Why me? I never even met them.'

‘I know. But I think you might be able to help us.'

Jim held up his hand. ‘Listen … before you continue, I don't get involved with any of that stuff any more. I came back to West Grove to lead a normal, boring, underpaid, ordinary life. I'm very sad to hear that two young people have died, but as far as I'm concerned it's your problem. Not mine.'

Lieutenant Harris took a stick of chewing gum out of the breast-pocket of his coat, unwrapped it, and thoughtfully folded it into his mouth. With his eyes lowered, he fashioned the silver foil into a tiny model airplane.

‘The
Spirit of St Louis
,' he said, holding it up. ‘I can make the
Enola Gay,
too, but that takes at least four wrappers.'

‘How did they die?' Jim asked him.

‘I thought you weren't interested.'

‘Of course I'm interested. It's just that I don't want to find myself all tangled up in anything weird. Especially anything
dangerous
and weird.'

Lieutenant Harris cleared his throat. ‘Robert and Sara were found in a beach property at Santa Monica that belonged to Robert Tubbs' parents. Mr and Mrs Tubbs had no idea that they were there, and Robert wasn't allowed to use the property without their specific consent. They weren't even aware that he had a key. The Tubbs' maid found them. She was supposed to clean the place up for a dinner party they were holding this weekend. She smelled something as soon as she opened the door. When she went into the bedroom she found their bodies, burned.'

‘Terrible,' said Dr Ehrlichman. ‘Absolutely terrible. Their parents are devastated.'

‘Was it an accident?' asked Jim. ‘Were they – what? – smoking in bed or something?'

Lieutenant Harris shook his head.

‘So what was it? Murder?' Jim paused and frowned. ‘Don't tell me they set fire to themselves deliberately.'

‘No, no, it doesn't look like a suicide pact. There was no accelerant on the premises, anyhow – nothing they could have used to burn themselves with. It's kind of hard for me to explain it to you.'

‘I'm not so sure that I want you to.'

‘Look, I can totally appreciate why you don't want to get involved, Mr Rook – and if you insist that you don't want to help, then I'll have to accept your decision, won't I? But there are certain aspects of this case that even the Crime Scenes Unit can't make head nor tail of, and neither can I.'

‘And what makes you think that I'll be able to? I'm not a detective.'

‘I know you're not. But you're au fait with all of this supernatural stuff, aren't you?'

Jim took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Lieutenant, when I was ten or eleven years old I suffered from pneumonia and I nearly died. Ever since then, I've had a heightened sensitivity to what you might call
presences
– spirits, or souls, or whatever you want to call them. I can see things that other people can't see – or don't notice, to be more accurate. But that's the whole story, and it doesn't make me the world's expert on everything bizarre. I'm sure you'll find that there's a perfectly logical explanation for the way these two young people got themselves burned, even if it isn't immediately obvious.'

‘You haven't seen the crime scene.'

‘I don't want to, either.'

‘Well,' said Lieutenant Harris, ‘it's your decision. But I can't see any logical explanation for what happened to Robert Tubbs and Sara Miller – none whatsoever – and I'll bet you a double enchilada at Tacos Tacos that you can't, either.'

J
im followed Lieutenant Harris down the ramp that led to the beach, and parked his aging gold Lincoln Continental on the sand. It was a warm, windy afternoon, and the seagulls hung suspended in the air as if they had been captured in a still photograph. There were already four squad cars parked outside the beach house, as well as an ambulance from the coroner's department, two sport-utility vehicles from the Crime Scenes Unit, and satellite-transmission vans from three different TV news stations.

As Jim and Lieutenant Harris walked toward the beach house, a crowd of reporters and cameramen came hurrying toward them over the sand.

‘Lieutenant! Can you give us any more details about the way these kids died? The ME says they were seriously burned. How seriously is seriously? Do you know if the fire was deliberate? Was it arson, or was it a horrible accident?'

Lieutenant Harris stopped and raised both hands. ‘I'm sorry, people. Right now, I can't give you any more information over and above what the coroner and the fire department investigators have already told you. As soon as I know anything more, believe me, you'll know it, too.'