24

Despite his reluctance, Patterson had picked up Linda Ames’s slip of paper after their meeting and put it in his pocket. This had bugged Campanella. He’d asked, nervously, what Patterson was planning to do. Patterson had told him he didn’t know.

“I wish you wouldn’t poke around, Mike. It’s just going to complicate things.”

“I probably won’t.”

Campanella had looked suspicious. He was no dummy.

“If you do talk to someone, for God’s sake, don’t put anything in writing, okay? I’ll have to turn any new witness statements over to Linda, and she’ll try to stuff them down my throat at the trial.” He’d watched Patterson carefully. “Can we at least agree on that?”

Patterson thought for a while, then said, “It’s a deal, Paul. Nothing in writing.”

“It would be better not to contact this kid at all. It’s just giving Ames a stick to beat me with. If she lists him as a witness, you can talk to him then.”

“Got it. I probably won’t do anything. I don’t know.”

Campanella grimaced. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell anyone I told you not to follow up on this.” He stroked his goatee nervously. “I had a hard enough time convincing Boston to let me take this case on my own, okay? I don’t need any red herrings complicating the trial.”

Campanella’s boss, U.S. Attorney Buddy Hogan, had been blunt. He’d let Campanella take his first solo flight, he said, but if Campanella crashed such an easy case, he’d be back sorting documents in the subbasement of the Worcester courthouse for the next decade.

“Those herrings,” Patterson said. “They’ll swim right up your butt.” They both laughed, and Patterson stood. He patted Campanella’s arm and smiled down at him. “Don’t worry, Paul. This conversation never happened.”

Patterson’s statement that he didn’t know what he was going to do with Ames’s note was not quite true. In fact, Patterson did know. He owed it to Cranmer—not to the moth-eaten little professor of today, but to the scared, gutsy kid up in the chopper forty years ago—to check out this Jaworski character. The interview probably wouldn’t go anywhere, but he’d feel better.

As he merged into the traffic on I-91 heading north from the courthouse toward Amherst, Patterson ran over the handful of facts he knew about Jaworski. He was a junior, a computer science major, and he came from Chicago, where his dad was a big shot. His girlfriend—Lizzy Spencer? Libby Spencer?—was the girl they’d run into at the arrest scene. She was Cranmer’s research assistant and probably would have been happy to sneak Jaworski into the professor’s house. According to what Claire Lindemann had told Ames, Jaworski had a beef with Cranmer over some class he’d taken. Patterson had trouble imagining a mediocre grade provoking all this, but with some of these kids nowadays—especially the rich, entitled ones—you never knew.

The visit to Jaworski was prompted partly by convenience. The kid’s condo was located on his route home from Springfield to Amherst Woods. It was coming on toward sunset as he passed Holyoke driving north, and the slanting light deepened the lingering greens and contrasting oranges and reds lining the Connecticut River. Columbus Day was coming up, the peak of the foliage. Now and then, on a rise, he’d catch a glimpse of the smoky Berkshires off in the distance to the west. He was getting a soft spot for this area. The rented house was very comfortable, and Margaret and James were starting to make friends at the high school. A year here wasn’t the end of the world.

When Patterson knocked on Jaworski’s door, he heard hip-hop music and a male voice inside, not too happy, shouting “Just a sec!” The condo complex was swank, with neatly trimmed lawns, lush shrubbery around the Colonial-style buildings, and big pots of yellow mums on the brick landings.

The kid’s family definitely had the cash. Did he bother with a roommate?

Jaworski was wearing baggy cargo shorts and a black-and-gold Chicago Bulls T-shirt when he answered the door. His hair was wet, and he was scrubbing the sides of his head with a big orange towel.

“Uh, hullo?”

“Ryan Jaworski?”

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Mike Patterson. I’m a special agent for the FBI. I wonder if I could talk to you for a couple minutes.” He held out his badge.

Jaworski squinted down at the badge and then blinked up at him. “I don’t know. Do I have to?”

“No. But I could sure use your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Can I come in?”

“Gee. Boy, I don’t know. What’s your name again?”

“Mike Patterson. I only need a couple minutes.” Jaworski was taking his time looking him over. Was he scared or just trying to figure out if Patterson was real? A black FBI agent?

Patterson ran into this situation regularly. The number of African American FBI agents these days must have that old racist J. Edgar Hoover spinning in his grave—assuming his pantyhose didn’t get in a twist.

“Well …” Jaworski glanced behind him and ran his fingers back through his hair.

Ryan Jaworski was real nervous. Interesting. Patterson was glad he’d stopped.

Patterson shrugged and started to turn away. “Hey, man, if you don’t want to talk to me …” The “man” was deliberate. Sometimes a touch of street talk, or what a white kid like Ryan might take for street talk, could crack things open. It worked.

“Nah, nah, it’s okay, I guess. Just a couple minutes, right?”

“All I need, Ryan. Two or three minor details we’re looking into. Just happened to be in the neighborhood. No biggie. My dinner’s waiting.”

“Okay.” Jaworski threw the towel onto a sofa. “Place is a little messy.” The kid was working hard to act casual.

“I’m used to messes.” Patterson gave him a smile, patted him on the shoulder, and stepped in. Whatever happened after this, he could testify that Jaworski had voluntarily given him consent to enter. “Got a roommate? Anyone else on the premises?”

“No. It’s just me.” Jaworski looked around vaguely as they crossed into the living room. “Um, I’m not sure where we should sit.”

Patterson picked up a chair from the dining area and swung it around so it was facing the couch. “Why don’t I take this, and you can shove some of that stuff over and sit there?” Patterson nodded at a heavy canvas robe with a black belt on top of it. “Judogi?”

“Just got back from a workout.”

“Good for you.”

Patterson started his questioning as he always did, with things he already knew, jotting on a pad as he went: Ryan’s full name and birth date, his class, his major, and easy basics to get the kid comfortable responding. He got Jaworski talking about the fact that he was a Bulls fan.

“Sorry.” Patterson tapped himself on the chest. “Wizards. I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Bulls stunk, too.” Ryan made a face. “Next season may be better.”

“Listen.” Patterson put the pad aside and leaned forward. “You probably read about the problems one of your professors is having. Sidney Cranmer. Can you give me some background? Did you ever take any classes with him?”

“No.” Jaworski sniffed, looked to the side, and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Like I said, I’m a computer science major.”

“Any contact with him at all?”

“Not really.”

Patterson made a point of looking bored. He’d been right. This was getting interesting.

“Well, I doubt you can help me then. Let me see. I wrote a couple things down so I wouldn’t forget. Where did I put that piece of paper?” No law required a person to answer questions from an FBI agent, but if you did answer, it was a crime to lie. Jaworski’s fib about not taking a class with Cranmer was a five-year felony, something that might come in handy if they needed his cooperation. “Ah, here it is.” He unfolded Ames’s note and pretended to read it over. “Do you know anyone named, um, Lizzie Spencer?”

“Libby.” Jaworski supplied the correction quickly, flushed, then put on the brakes. “Not all that … Not … Well, we’ve dated. She was, for a while she was, sort of my girlfriend.”

“You still seeing her?”

“Sometimes. I’m mostly dating someone else now. Not from around here.”

“Uh-huh.” Patterson looked down at the paper again, putting on his confused face. “Says here she worked with Professor Cranmer, or something like that. Were you aware of that?”

“I think she said something about it, yeah.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Actually, now I’m remembering, it’s stupid. I forgot. I guess I’m …” Jaworski scrubbed his head, putting on a show.

“People forget things all the time, Ryan. You’d be amazed.”

“I-I did take a class with Cranmer.”

“Oh, that’s terrific.” Patterson picked up his pad and jotted a note. “What was it like?”

“Dull as dirt.” They both laughed. “I have to take a certain number of classes outside my major. I kept, like, falling asleep in Cranmer’s class. I guess that’s why it slipped my mind.” Jaworski chuckled again, trying to get something back from Patterson, who obliged by smiling and waving a hand dismissively.

“Remember it well. How’d you do?”

“Pretty good. B-plus or A-minus, something like that.”

“Any chance you’ve ever been to Cranmer’s house?”

“Why are you asking me that? I mean, it’s kind of weird. … I can’t even …”

Stepped on the kid’s toe. Sometimes his job was more fun than beer and Super Bowl commercials. “No particular reason. Says here something about Ms. Spencer working out of his house sometimes. Thought maybe you might have dropped by or something and could help me out with what his place is like.”

“Let me think.” Jaworski actually grasped his chin and did such a crude pantomime of brain work that Patterson had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking into a grin. “Yeah. Yeah. I … actually, I do think I might have dropped by there once. I don’t remember when. I think Libby and I were going out, and I was picking her up—something like that.”

“Uh-huh. Great. Happen to go inside?”

“Maybe for, like, twenty seconds.”

“Excellent. What was it like?”

“Little old lady’s house. Prissy. Smelled like my grandmother.”

“Really? That doesn’t surprise me.” Patterson tossed the pad on the coffee table, as though the interview were basically over. “One quickie. This is a long shot. Did you happen to see a flyer, a piece of paper, anywhere in the house, a kind of advertisement from some company selling pornographic DVDs? Anywhere in his house? Doorstep? Mailbox? Anything like that?”

Jaworski’s mouth dropped open, and he actually went pale. Generally, Patterson didn’t consider himself a particularly good judge of when someone was lying. He’d been fooled many times. But this poor worm had a flashing light over his head.

“No, no, no way. Nothing like that.” Jaworski breathed and settled himself down a little. “Like I said, it was, like, thirty seconds I was in the house.”

“Got it. Just so I’m clear, you never saw, say, a brochure or flyer or anything like that advertising child pornography, or any kind of pornography, in his house. I know I’m pushing here, but my supervisor says I have to run through this with everybody. Part of the drill.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Almost forgot.”

“No,” Jaworski said, relaxing a little. “Nothing like that. I mean, I barely stuck my nose in the place.”

“Okay, that’ll do it.” Patterson retrieved the pad, stuck it in his pocket, and stood up. As they walked toward the door, he put a hand on Jaworski’s arm and said, “I’m getting absentminded in my middle age. Just a wrap-up question. Anything further you can think of about Cranmer that might give me a better picture of him? Anyone else you think I should talk to?”

After a pause, Jaworski responded casually. “Well, I know there’s more child porn at his house, that’s for sure.”

“I bet there is.”

Did Jaworski actually think this information was not important? Or had he just made the decision to croak Cranmer to cover himself?

“And there’s this one professor I know who kind of hates Cranmer, a guy named Harlan Graves. You might want to talk with him.”

“Good. Thanks. Maybe I will.” Patterson stopped inside the front door, looked down, and scratched his head. “Maybe.” He sighed and made a show of hesitating. “This is probably not going to make any difference, but could I have, maybe, just two more minutes of your time?”