27

Patterson decided he might have the best luck approaching Elizabeth Spencer after class. That afternoon, he waited on a bench outside Converse Hall until he spotted her coming down the long steps. Even from a distance, she was a strikingly poised young woman—curvy but not flaunting it too much, with medium-length light-brown hair framing an intelligent, heart-shaped face. She was wearing a bright-red fleece and, fortunately, she was on her own. A couple of the boys hurrying into the building smiled at her as they passed. Her quick return twinkle told them she was friendly but happened to be in a hurry to get somewhere. The young lady had already mastered the art of the gracious brush-off.

“Ms. Spencer?” He approached from the side, and she had to stop to turn and see him.

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes, widening slightly, marked him as an enemy. She looked around to make sure there were other people in the vicinity, on her guard.

“I’m sure you remember me. I’m Mike Patterson from the FBI.” He held out his badge. “You did a terrific job at the hearing the other day. We’re trying to straighten a few things out, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple quick questions?”

“I remember you. What do you want to talk about?”

“This isn’t the best spot.” He smiled. “Maybe we could find an empty classroom.” He nodded up at the building she’d just left.

“No, this is fine.” Her eyes narrowed, and she shifted a strap of her backpack. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”

“Let me just get some basic information. Your family’s from Minnesota, right?”

“You know all that. Come on.”

“Well …”

“Listen. I know you are doing your job, Mr. Patterson, and I don’t want to be a problem. But my uncle always told me never to speak to the police—or the FBI, or whatever—without having a lawyer. If you want to talk to me, then I want to talk to a lawyer first, and you can contact him. Or her. You’re a nice person, I guess, but I really don’t want to talk to you like this, coming up to me out of the blue and all. I’m sorry.”

She started to turn away.

“Fair enough. Can I just leave you my card?”

“Sure.” She took the card and gave him a slightly apologetic smile. “Usually, I’m not such a crab.”

“Well …”

“Bye.”

She walked off, increasing her speed a little and not looking back. Without suggesting panic, her posture underlined her decision to have nothing to do with him. It was exactly the way he’d want his daughter to handle a situation like this if some cop ever approached her. The young lady had left him with absolutely no idea whether she had anything to hide.

The attempted contact with Harlan Graves, a half hour later, produced something approaching outright fireworks. In response to Patterson’s knock, Graves opened his door halfway and peeped out at him suspiciously. The professor was wearing a threadbare olive cardigan, a pair of wrinkled khakis, and carpet slippers. As soon as Patterson mentioned that he was from the FBI, the guy practically turned purple.

“I don’t have anything to say, and I don’t appreciate these Gestapo tactics! If you want to talk to me, make an appointment.”

“Well, I was just in the area …”

“What do you want to talk about, anyway?” The professor was at least curious, and Patterson hoped for a second that this might get him in the door.

“Well, we’re checking on some things about your colleague, Professor Cranmer, and—”

“Cranmer! He’s a twisted little peacock. Other than that, I have nothing to say.” Graves looked over his shoulder, possibly at some noise inside the house, and dropped his voice. “If you want some dirt on Cranmer from someone who would eat Sid’s liver on toast, go talk to Professor Mattoon.” His eyes glinted with malice. “You might strike oil there.”

The indistinct voice of an elderly woman reached Patterson from somewhere in the house. Graves turned and called out, “It’s okay, Martha. It’s just a man.” He turned back to Patterson. “My wife is not well. Now go away.”

The door shut hard, and Patterson heard the cluck of the dead bolt. Graves’s response didn’t especially bother him. It wasn’t the first time someone had shut a door in his face. But he couldn’t help wondering what this guy’s problem was. Tax evasion? Tearing the tag off a mattress?

He wasn’t doing anything, so he decided he’d take a shot at talking to this Mattoon character. After a few inquiries, he located the professor’s office and arrived just as a student, a tall black kid—probably not an American—was leaving.

Mattoon’s reassuring voice came from inside. “Don’t break your back, Robert, okay? Next Wednesday will be fine. Let me know if you need another extension.”

The tall boy paused in the doorway, looking back. His handsome face was solemn, his skin very black. “Thank you. I appreciate it very much. My family appreciates it. I will submit the paper by Wednesday without fail.” The kid had a lovely accent. Nigerian? Haitian?

When the student was down the hall and out of earshot, Patterson leaned into Mattoon’s office. The place had a cozy, in-control feeling, without being fussy. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves occupied the left- and right-hand walls, full but not overstuffed, and a large window looked out over the lawn behind Mattoon’s uncluttered desk. A computer table sat at a right angle to the desk, its monitor displaying some electronic document. Mattoon was looking over a sheaf of papers as Patterson entered.

“Excuse me. Professor Mattoon?”

“Yes? Hello? What can I … ?”

“I’m Mike Patterson. I’m a special agent with the FBI. I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if I could have two minutes of your time for a couple questions.” He held out his badge.

The guy’s reaction was calm. “The FBI? Goodness.” Mattoon bent his lips into a half frown—puzzled but not scared. “I can’t imagine how I could help you.” He hesitated. “I hope it’s not about Robert?” He reached over to close the screen on his computer. “Because if it is, I’m afraid …”

“Nothing to do with him. Immigration’s not my area.” Patterson guessed from the student’s accent that he probably had some battle going on with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A lot of the foreign students did, especially the Haitians. Mattoon’s relieved expression confirmed the nature of Robert’s predicament.

“I’m glad to hear that. He’s a terrific kid, very smart, and he’s in a very unfair, scary situation.”

“No, I’m following up on a couple details in the case involving a colleague of yours, Sidney Cranmer. As I said, I was in the—”

“Oh, God, not Sid. What’s he done now?”

“Do you know him?”

“Of course. It’s a small department. In fact, I’ve picked up one of his classes, now that he’s”—Mattoon raised his eyebrows—“otherwise occupied.”

“What’s Cranmer like?”

“He’s a crackpot.”

“Really. Is he—”

“No. Wait, wait.” Mattoon scrubbed a hand over his face and sniffed. “That was mean. What I should have said is that he’s most of the way over the hill and somewhat eccentric.”

“In other words, a crackpot?”

“Well, there’s this difference between connotation and denotation that I keep trying to teach my students. Sid’s okay. His scholarship is out of date, which does nothing to reduce his arrogance, and he can be a pill.” Mattoon shoved the papers he’d been reviewing to one side. “He has meltdowns during department meetings when he more or less tells everyone to go fuck themselves. People take it in stride—just Sid being Sid. I’m probably less patient with him than some people.”

“Had you ever, before he was charged, gotten the sense that he might have some sexual fixation on children or collect child pornography?”

“Well, to be honest, his problems were not entirely a shock to most people. The author he specializes in, Lewis Carroll, was what we’d probably call a pedophile nowadays. The guy enjoyed taking pictures of naked little girls, and I guess Sid liked keeping the pictures around.”

“Charles Dodgson.”

Mattoon raised his eyebrows and bestowed a smile on Patterson that was so condescending that it lifted the hair on the back of Patterson’s head.

“Very good. Very good. It’s an unusual specialty, but I have the impression that everyone just thought that he was a lovable, or at least mostly lovable, nut. I doubt anyone thought he had any, what you might call, repulsive proclivities.”

“Ever been in his house?”

“Nope, never invited.”

“How about his office?”

“A few times, mostly just to stick my head in.”

“Ever happen to see a flyer or advertisement, sitting on his desk or somewhere, inviting him to send off for any kind of pornographic DVDs?”

Mattoon laughed. “I doubt he’d leave something like that sitting around. The administration would have a purple cow. Not to mention our small army of feminists. No, never.”

“Did he or anyone else ever mention anything about such a flyer or advertisement to you?” Now the guy was tightening up, drawing out the smile left over from the cow joke, which wasn’t all that funny. Patterson disliked Mattoon, but that didn’t mean the man had done anything wrong. Even if he was lying, who knew what about, or why?

“Well, I … An advertisement? What kind of advertisement?”

“Yeah, I know, this is kind of a long shot, but I’m asking everyone. One of the pieces of evidence against Professor Cranmer is a DVD with some very graphic child pornography. It was ordered in response to a flyer that advertised a bunch of DVDs all with this same sort of contraband material. Professor Cranmer sent it in, and that’s part of the case against him. I was just wondering if you ever heard anything about it.”

“About the flyer?”

“Right. I’m asking a lot of people about this.”

“What other people?”

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. My supervisor would kill me.”

“Well, I can tell you, Agent Peterson …”

“Patterson.”

“Sorry. I can tell you that I never saw any advertisement, never heard anything about any flyer. Don’t know a thing about it. Afraid I can’t help you with that. It came to his house, you say?”

“Well, I didn’t say because, to tell the truth, I can’t remember. It came to his house or his office or got to him somehow.”

“Don’t know a thing about it.” Patterson’s catch about the flyer at the house had Mattoon tightening up more. His face had gone plastic.

“Well, thanks. Here’s my card. Would you give me a call if you remember anything related to the charges, particularly anything you might hear about underage material? It might help us a lot.”

“Sure. I can give you my cell number in case you have any follow-up.”

“It’s okay.” Patterson threw Mattoon a fastball under the chin. “I already have it.”

“Oh.”

Patterson allowed himself to leave Mattoon’s office entirely before he did his Columbo-style return. He stuck his head back in. “Forgot one thing. Do you know a student named Ryan Jaworski?”

“I do, yes. He took one of my classes.”

“Do you know of any reason Jaworski might have a problem with Cranmer?”

“No idea.”

“Well, we’re doing a handwriting analysis on the flyer. It may help us out.”

Mattoon smiled, turned, and flipped the text back up onto his computer, letting Patterson know he was done with him. “Well, good luck!”

Patterson knew very well that the FBI expert’s attempt to break down the handwriting on the flyer had gone nowhere. But Mattoon wouldn’t know that. It never hurt to give the tree a shake now and then. You never knew what might come tumbling out of the branches.