Cinq-Mars and the police devise a plan. Their target has taken leave for a washroom visit, and in his absence Émile has a word with Hammond, specifically, before whispering a straightforward strategy to both him and Chief Till. The latter is assigned to take the lead in the interrogation—ostensibly, a chat—with Bennington Havilland-Clegg.
“Keep it neat, keep it cordial,” is the gist of his suggestion.
“I’ll stroke the prick’s ego,” the Hanover police chief promises.
“But not the ego’s prick,” Hammond mutters, and the others give him a look. They’re amused. That was fast, and they didn’t know he had it in him.
The trooper, of course, is free to pull rank at any moment. To secure his secondary support, Cinq-Mars makes the case that the suspect’s personal radar will be thwarted if the humbler police force is out front and visible. Fearing Till less makes Havilland-Clegg more vulnerable. “What he can’t see coming stays invisible.”
“Gotcha.” If anything, Hammond is annoyed that his colleagues are making allowances for him. He’s excited, and part of the kick derives from their collaboration.
The next shoe must not fall from the benefactor’s foot until he himself kicks off a leather penny loafer and hurls it across the room. In the interim, the interrogation will benefit if the man’s supercilious demeanor remains intact. A devotee of precious gemstones, he’s been touted as an asset: They need him wholly convinced of that fib. By hook or by crook, they must delay revealing to Ben Havilland-Clegg, and even to themselves, the depths and contours of his own depravity.
Provided, of course, they’ve got the right guy.
“Shit creek if we’re wrong,” Hammond notes.
“You guys will be up it without a paddle,” Cinq-Mars points out. “Me, I’m retired.”
Their suspicions run deep, yet they have no way to validate them. Havilland-Clegg must do that on his own. As police work goes, their case is flimsy, at best, and Till treads lightly, aware that the man harbors an alibi in his hip pocket.
Their suspect returns to the selected venue where Cinq-Mars and Hammond leave him alone with Till.
“Thanks for this, sir. Appreciate it.”
“Do I call you ‘Chief’? I wish you were called ‘Sheriff’. Chief feels Native American to me, doesn’t fall off the tongue in a natural way. I feel I’m disparaging you.”
Already he’d like to smack him. “Please, sir, call me Alex.”
“Glad to. Alexander, is it?”
Till nods. They seat themselves in a small antechamber where the green-shaded lamps are dim, in part to keep the aging oil paintings of the school’s founding fathers from damage by light. Portraits dominate three walls, the fourth faces a corridor and is mainly glass. A quiet, if public, place to study. Anyone walking by might imagine them on a stage. The interview can be conducted at this time of year with little or no interruption, yet it’s still a public place and therefore seems safe. The guest is content to ease himself farther back into a plush leather chair, careful not to spill his drink.
“As I was saying, I appreciate it. We have no suspects. We can’t hang our hat on a single significant clue. I hate to admit it, the guy we’re looking for must be a mad genius. All we can do is go over the same ground, try to shine a light, see if we can’t trip over our own thumbs, you know?”
“How may I be of assistance, Alexander? I heard mention of a necklace?”
“We’ll have a copy for you shortly,” Till lets him know. “We showed it to an expert, got nowhere. Maybe the more people who take a look, the better our chances. A shot in the dark. Oh. Pardon the expression. My mistake. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Havilland-Clegg smiles in sympathy of the faux pas by the bumbling officer. “No problem. You’re hoping the gems have meaning, is that the idea?”
“If they offer any clue at all, we’ll take it. If not, no harm no foul.” Till extracts a notebook from his suit pocket. “I don’t usually do this out of uniform, Bennington. While we’re waiting for the necklace—”
“Not to mention my Manhattans, they’re on their way, as well.” He claims a coaster from the drawer of his table stand, which he tests by placing his current glass down gently. Then he promptly retrieves it for another sip.
“While we wait, if it’s all right with you, protocol, procedure—a formality—for the record, can you account for your whereabouts on the night in question?”
Havilland-Clegg peers over his lowball glass at him. “What night in question?”
“The night Addie Langford was murdered.”
He smiles, and knits the fingers of his hands together. “Am I a suspect here, Alexander? Such a question.”
“Heavens, no, Ben! Procedure. That’s all. Formality. Frankly, if I had my way, I’d know what every person from three states around was doing on that night.”
Till hopes that he hasn’t pushed him too far too quickly: The man appears compliant. “Of course.” He puts his glass down and considers his response. “I had a rather long evening, Alexander. Not unlike today. By the way, would you mind calling me Mr. Havilland-Clegg? Ben and even Bennington are reserved for only my closest associates. I believe in restoring a proper formality to American discourse, you see. Or perhaps you don’t.”
“Certainly, sir, not a problem. Your whereabouts and activities at the time in question, sir?”
A gesture with a hand dismisses the worth of the question. “A few drinks in the late afternoon, through the cocktail hour. Over dinner, a bottle of fine wine. Perhaps a second. Shared with friends, of course. I was feeling a trifle tipsy. After dark I chose a coffee shop to sober up and while away the time. I hate waking up inebriated, don’t you? Anyway, it turned out to be a congenial evening, Alexander. People saw me there if I need to provide you with an alibi. Isn’t that exciting? Being required to state an alibi! Many of us in the coffee shop conversed. I spoke to a barista at length, a delicate young woman, full of ideas and ambition, and a waitress, as well. I’m sure they’ll remember me. Patrons, also. I don’t imagine I can find the latter unless it’s their habit to show up there again. The young people who work there, they’ll vouch for me.”
“Sorry,” Till intrudes, “the coffee shop crowd doesn’t strike me as being your usual sort.”
He smiles. He feels complimented. “A nostalgic hour, in a way. A sensibility takes hold of me when I come up here. Old reveries from college days. I step back in time, talk to young people, feel like a kid again myself. I forget the name of the coffee bar. It’s new, I can point it out to you. After that I went across to the Holyoake Inn, where I’m staying—”
“What time do you think?”
“After midnight.” He picks up his glass, without sipping, then puts it down again as he remembers. “Closing in on one. Does that take me off the hook or put me on it? When was the crime committed?”
“Ah, the murder occurred during that hour, actually. The rape, a while before, we believe.”
“Then I’m standing in the clear light of the sun! Multiple witnesses will confirm my whereabouts through the late afternoon, evening, until the witching hour. At the inn, I had quite a lengthy chat with the desk clerk. I guess that cinches it. Then I went up. Sorry, Alexander, no one can say whether I snored or not.”
Till chuckles on cue. “Thank you, Mr. Havilland-Clegg. I’ve often wondered, away on my vacation, fishing in the north woods, what would happen if I was accused of a crime elsewhere at that moment? Who would vouch for me, off on my lonesome like that? You’ve got it covered; that’s great.”
“I hear what you’re saying. I’m a social animal, Alexander. I usually have it covered. Certainly on that terrible night I do.”
Hammond arrives with the necklace. A door opening and closing down the hall releases a burst of party sound. The event is still going strong. Hammond offers a perfunctory smile, removes the necklace from the box, places it on the coffee table at their knees, then sits in the big armchair beside Till as if he’s hardly interested. He wears a placid expression and intertwines the fingers of his hands.
Bennington Havilland-Clegg picks up the necklace to examine it at close range. His eyes squint, emphasizing the wrinkle lines on his face. When he puts it down, he takes up his glass again, and laments, “A bit clumsy overall, don’t you think? The gemstones themselves are interesting. Not without value. Pretty enough, I’d say. On the busy side. I prefer a necklace on a woman to be more delicate. That said—and I’m being picky, I admit—it’s interesting. On the right neck, with the right dress, the right cleavage, shall we say, the right atmosphere, proper lighting, it could be lovely on certain women.”
“It’s radioactive,” Till tells him.
“Pardon?” He seems taken aback, then recovers. “Obviously, many gems have a faint trace of radioactivity, that’s to be expected—”
“More than a trace in this instance. The charoite—do you know which stones they are?”
He nods that he does.
“Normally, they’re slightly radioactive, a trace, as you say. These happen to be highly so, to a degree both harmful, I’m told, with prolonged contact, and illegal. Can you imagine? The Russians. What a society. Chaos. Anyway, a party from there shipped them here. Callous bastards, hey? Fortunately, we’ve determined that the American distributor wasn’t part of the scam, only a victim. Once he caught wind of the problem he stopped his sales before too much of the supply hit the streets.”
“A break in the case, actually,” Hammond inserts.
“How so?” Havilland-Clegg is smiling still, pleased to be included in their enclave. “I have to say, this is fascinating!”
“Only a scant few jewelers,” Till lets him know, “received the charoite from that shipment. We know who they are through the distributor’s records. The FBI is contacting the individual jewelers as we speak to see who among them made the necklaces that were oddly included in two murders.”
Their suspect raises his chin in curiosity. “Two? Which other one?”
“The necklace wasn’t found on the other victim. Only its radioactivity remained. We assume that the custodian was wearing one. Then that necklace, if it was the same one, showed up at her boyfriend’s house.”
“You’ve arrested the boyfriend, then. This is fascinating!”
“We can’t make that arrest. He’s one of those killed.”
His chin drops a notch. “The professor, you mean? He was the boyfriend? Getting it on with a custodian? My God. I expect hanky-panky at a university, lots of it, only that’s not the sort of liaison that pops to mind. To each his own, I suppose.”
“Of course, we’re hoping that when we locate the jewelers who made the necklaces, they’ll give us the customer we’re looking for.”
Havilland-Clegg nods his chin thoughtfully. “I commend you,” he says. “This sounds like excellent police work to me. Now, how can I be of service? Ah!” he suddenly exclaims. “Further help is on the way. My fresh Manhattan!”
Émile Cinq-Mars has chosen to bring it along himself, and takes the opportunity to ham it up.
“Flurry of activity in there. I think a few of the old biddies will soon be dancing on tabletops. The FBI showed up, talking a blue streak to President Palmerich. I get the feeling that our host is at his wit’s end. He can’t take more police action on his campus without busting a gut.”
“FBI?” Havilland-Clegg says. “I didn’t know that they were here.”
“Everybody’s here,” Till mentions. “They’re stumped, too. Although they might have information on who bought the necklaces.”
Hammond plays along with Émile. “Did you eavesdrop?”
“They weren’t speaking to my ears, no.”
“Even Homeland Security is on this case,” Till tacks on.
Havilland-Clegg reacts. “Why them?”
“The professor,” Hammond explains. “He has a spy background.”
“Really?”
“No limit to police activity on this case,” Till points out to him, “until it’s solved.”
“Is that the necklace?” Cinq-Mars asks, and he leans over the coffee table for a closer look.
Havilland-Clegg warns, “Watch out. It’s radioactive,” and Cinq-Mars jerks back.
“Shouldn’t you put it away?”
“A box won’t help,” Till explains. “The damage is done. We’ll need a lead safe for this thing.”
“You know, I’m a little leery,” Havilland-Clegg admits, looking as though he’s about to make a beeline for an exit. “I recovered from cancer in the last year—”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Till sympathizes. “I mean, I’m glad to hear that you recovered. Sorry that you had to go through it.”
“Perhaps the necklace can be taken away? I’ve said all I can about it.”
“Do you think it tells a story?”
“No, I don’t think it tells a story. Better yet, since I can’t help you, perhaps I’ll just remove myself back to the party. I wouldn’t want to miss the octogenarian tabletop dancers.”
“Hmm.” The utterance that Émile Cinq-Mars emits has the odd effect of stopping everyone right where they are. As though no one will take a breath until he has revealed the objection on his mind. His sudden rise to authority countermands his earlier persona as a retiree devoted to wire. He flashes a smile, before taking it back, looking stern again, and says, “Not just yet, Ben.”
Havilland-Clegg stares back at him a moment, then checks quickly with Hammond and Till. Returning his gaze to Cinq-Mars, he corrects him, “It’s Bennington. Not Ben. At the party, I may permit a compromise or two. Here, I shall ask that you call me Mr. Havilland-Clegg. Thank you.”
Cinq-Mars murmurs to himself again.
His adversary continues. “You have an interesting face, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’d pick you out as an academic long before imagining you to be a manufacturer of wire.”
“Book by its cover,” Cinq-Mars cautions him. “I’m not an academic. Although I do have a degree in animal husbandry.”
“Seriously? What is that? Are you the wife? That’s unkind. The midwife, then? Yet you made wire for a living? Who are you?”
“Émile Cinq-Mars is my name. But you know that.”
“You don’t make wire.”
“Metaphorically I do.”
“FBI?”
“No, sir.”
“Homeland Security.” Havilland-Clegg speaks the words as though they constitute a joke.
“No, sir. Although I’ve worked for both the FBI and your Homeland Security.”
“In animal husbandry?” He snorts.
“The question of the hour, sir, is not who am I, the question is, who are you? And what have you done? What have you done, Ben?”
Their suspect hardly skips a beat. “Gentlemen, a delight and an education. Thank you for serving as the day’s entertainment. You should go on tour! Unfortunately, I’ll be on my way now. Ta-ta.”
Although he is standing in the man’s path, Cinq-Mars deigns to sit down, in one sense giving him an open exit. He sets up an obstacle to his escape route, however, by what he says next. “Palmerich has had a change of heart.”
Havilland-Clegg, hands on his knees to give himself a push to his feet, stalls. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t know if you are aware of this. President Palmerich has been sheltering you from us. He didn’t want his old-boy benefactor being upset by the scrutiny of ragamuffin police. The sophisticate from Virginia and Washington being bothered by local yokels—not acceptable. I understand. Your money is important. Nobody denies that. Still, he’s had a change of heart. Apparently, the FBI has told him a few things.”
“You do realize that you’re starting to tick me off.”
“Brace yourself, sir, because we have a long way to go down that road.”
“I’m outta here,” Havilland-Clegg states.
“What a thing to say!” Cinq-Mars challenges him. “First of all, Ben, you haven’t touched your Manhattan. I’d expect you to say I shall take my leave, or I can assure you that my departure is imminent or any one of your annoying locutions. I would not expect you to say ‘I’m outta here.’ Before you know it, you’ll be telling us that you have to split, or head back to the ’hood.”
Till and Hammond chuckle, for they know now that they’ve been given permission to needle their man.
“Chief Till,” Havilland-Clegg instructs, his voice monotone and irritated at last, “please advise this man that my alibi for the time in question is airtight.”
“I haven’t investigated your alibi,” Till reminds him.
“It’s airtight! The three of you are making fools of yourselves. Tell him. I can produce one witness after another to demonstrate that I could not have been in the clock tower while that poor girl was going through her ordeal.”
“Oh, we already know that,” Cinq-Mars scoffs. “You were being watched at the time, didn’t you notice? By the boy who was tossed out of a car. Or is that why he was tossed out of a car? Or did something go terribly wrong with that abduction, which led to the boy being tossed out of a car? Which was it? The FBI,” Cinq-Mars tells his newfound colleagues, “have located the two men who were involved, as I predicted they would, actually.”
Hammond whistles. “That’s major,” he states.
“A breakthrough,” Till agrees.
Havilland-Clegg is wearing that supercilious grin again.
“What is it, Ben? You don’t seem pleased that we’ve found the two culprits?”
“What? No. I’m delighted. In fact, if you’ve just arrested the two men, pin the crimes on them. They’ve got nothing to do with me.”
“They may talk. Aren’t you concerned? They may have a lot to say.”
“Don’t know them. They don’t know me. Why should I be concerned?”
“What’ve they told us?” Hammond asks.
Cinq-Mars punctuates the air with a finger. “You see, that’s a good question. Why didn’t Benji ask that question?”
“Duh. Because I’m not a cop?”
“Possibly. Or—?”
“Or? Or because … I think this is a policeman’s silly trick where you invent a discovery to fool your witness into believing that the jig is up. Well, I’m not guilty. I didn’t kill that girl. I have absolutely nothing to admit. And yes, I will take a polygraph if you like. My alibi is simply that I was with a lot of other people at the time. If these two fellows that you say you have located said anything detrimental about me, then I’m quite certain that you put the words into their mouths. Or they never said anything at all because you haven’t found them. You just made that up.”
“Or?” Cinq-Mars asks him again.
“I have nothing to add.”
“Or,” Cinq-Mars explains to Till and Hammond, “Benny is not concerned about what the two men might’ve said because he knows that they are both quite dead. You know that, Bens, and now we know it, too. I predicted things would turn out this way.”
Hammond takes out his wallet, extracts a twenty-dollar bill, and passes it over to Cinq-Mars, who holds his palm up to receive it. Havilland-Clegg observes the slow-motion transaction played out for his benefit.
“I shared that prediction with President Palmerich, as well. Now that the FBI has confirmed that it’s true, he’s more impressed with me, less impressed by you. Of course, I bit my tongue earlier, about what the agents said. I was permitted to listen in. A jeweler gave the FBI an excellent description of the man who commissioned the necklaces, and that description was relayed to President Palmerich. Of course, you looked different then, less hair, you had your cancer at the time and it showed, although the president remembers how you looked back then.”
“Are you full of shit from the knees up or all the way down from your nuts?”
“Cute,” Cinq-Mars says.
“Mind your manners, please, sir,” Till suggests.
“Fuck you.”
“Let’s keep it civil,” Hammond warns him.
“Or what?” Havilland-Clegg fires back.
“Or I’ll take you in, lock you in a cell, and have my guys beat the living crap out of you. Then, we’ll talk again. Your choice. Which do you prefer?”
Havilland-Clegg briefly waves his hand in midair. “I get this now,” he says.
“Do you?”
“You’ve got nothing, so you’re trying to pin it on a rich guy. No wonder our prisons are full of people who never committed a crime. All due to police incompetence and pure laziness. Well, sir. Think again. They say that money can’t buy happiness but it sure as hell can buy the best lawyers in the land. By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be two scrambled eggs”—his eyes take in the police officers—“on toast,” and they get who toast is supposed to be.
“Think so?” Cinq-Mars presses him.
“For starters, I know President Palmerich. He’s a brilliant man. He has no reason to believe that two dead ruffians means that one of his most faithful benefactors is guilty of a crime. Get real.” To Cinq-Mars he adds, “Pardon me for using the vernacular.”
“There is the matter of the description.”
“Lots of people with cancer look like me with cancer.”
“Who said the jeweler described you?”
“Go to hell. I know what you implied.”
Cinq-Mars adds, “Oh, and the FBI had one other thing to say to him. I asked the president this morning if he might permit the FBI to search through school records. He acquiesced. He’s not going to stand in the way of justice if none of his money people are inconvenienced, now is he? What they found out—tell me. Can you guess?”
Havilland-Clegg makes a face and indicates that he cannot.
“Yeah,” Cinq-Mars says. “It’s been a while, Benji. Easy to forget these tiny loopholes in the perfect crime. Is that what you were after, by the way? The perfect crime? How to be vile and vicious and commit murder and confound the authorities into submission? Nice effort. Anyway, what the search of school files indicated—you may not have known that the archives carried such information; they do, and we hired a number of students to help us cull through the records on microfiche. Old technology is slow. They culled the records on behalf of the bureau, and those records indicate that when you were at Dowbiggin, a long time ago, during the Winter Festival, when the public is permitted to go up the clock tower, for three years running you were entrusted to be the Guardian of the Tower, which means that you were in possession of the keys. Do you remember that?”
“Nice try,” Havilland-Clegg tells him, although he does seem more subdued now. “Those keys are not the kind that can be duplicated, and of course I returned my copies.”
“Oh, please, a young man of your wealth and cunning, you could have had the keys cut. Unscrupulous people exist in the world, some are locksmiths. Don’t tell me you haven’t met an unscrupulous person willing to break a rule for cash.”
“Why are we even having this conversation? Check out my alibi! And seriously, do you think I planned a murder thirty years ago?”
“I don’t give you that much credit, no. I think you planned escapades in the clock tower, with your private keys, while you were a rambunctious student, and over the years. Your personal den of iniquity. Or maybe you used it as your own private study hall, who knows?”
“As I said. My alibi is airtight. This conversation is over. Talk to my lawyers. I’ll bring in a truckload.”
“You were being followed that night, Benny! By the boy who was thrown from a moving car! We’ve interviewed him. We know where you were when the girl was raped. We know where you were when she was murdered. Stop fretting about that, please.”
“This is ridiculous. Can I go now?”
“Nobody’s holding you,” Cinq-Mars tells him, and the man stands. “Of course, you have to understand that whether you are guilty or not, you are going to be accused of raping the poor girl’s corpse, which occurred at a later hour when you have no such alibi, unless it’s being alone in a room, and even if you are entirely innocent of the crime, it is going to stick to you like glue, like Krazy Glue, that accusation, and you know how hard that stuff can be to get off. Intimate relations with a corpse. Chances are, the stench of that will hover around you for life. You might want to consider talking to us now to see if you can’t wiggle free and persuade us otherwise.”
Havilland-Clegg stands over him as though he’s been walloped by a telephone pole. Teetering, he absorbs the blow.
“Seriously,” Cinq-Mars puts to him, “how willing are you to take that polygraph now that you know what will be the key question? Did you rape the corpse, Bens?”
In apparent slow motion, he sits down again.
An innocent man, Cinq-Mars believes, would not have bothered. While he’s still relying on gut instinct, and evidence that only barely qualifies as circumstantial, although it’s growing, he feels more certain than ever that he has his man. This far, anyway, his one lie has worked, as the FBI has no report from a jeweler. Not yet. He got away with that one, as he believed that only Havilland-Clegg could have designed and overseen the creation of the necklace.
“That’s a terrible thing you said,” Havilland-Clegg contends. “A sordid accusation like that will carry repercussions in public.”
“I realize that I just threatened you, Ben. I accept that it is your prerogative to threaten me back. Tit for tat. A retaliation. I’m not an officer of the law, nor even a citizen of this country, so good luck with whatever legal maneuver you have in mind to come and get me. No, no,” Cinq-Mars says, interrupting Havilland-Clegg before he can get a word in edgewise. “I’m giving you this one. You don’t need to object. I expect you to be angry with me. As I said before, we have a long way to go down the road toward me ticking you off. Or to put it another way, the road to your perdition is long and bumpy, and yet, we’re going down it. That is our final destination.”
Havilland-Clegg stares back at him. “The road … to my perdition? Gentlemen,” he asks the others, “who’s the madman? What’s he doing here? The road to my perdition? What fucking train to the nuthouse did you leap off of, Cinq-Mars?”
The former detective nods, as though agreeing with the man’s objection. “You’re right,” he says. “Are you a religious man, Benji? Probably not. Most killers lack both an efficient conscience and the spiritual consciousness that’s required to be a religious man. I am, oddly enough, exactly that. Religious. I know! Incongruous, isn’t it? In my profession. In this day and age. It takes all kinds, even to be a detective.”
“That’s what you are.”
“A detective, yes. Retired, though. That part, at least, is true. A retired detective and a religious man. I apologize, you see, for my language. The road to perdition. You’re right. Way too formal, too orthodox, too religious, for the circumstances. After all, we’re not here to consign you to hell, sir, or even to pass judgment. We’re here merely to compile evidence sufficient to see you convicted and incarcerated. For life. I don’t suppose New Hampshire has the death penalty?”
Hammond confirms that his state does not.
“What a shame. Life imprisonment, then. That’s what we’re here for. I’ll retract the bit about perdition. Not my domain.”
Havilland-Clegg has gone both cocky and amused. “Oh, bring it on, sir. Show me what you’ve got. Tell me how you’re going to convince a jury to convict an innocent man, with an airtight alibi, of a crime he did not commit when that man is rich, with great lawyers in his corner—that’s inevitable—and who is a veritable pillar of the community. You’ve got your work cut out for you, I’d say.”
Cinq-Mars returns his amused manner. “I knew you’d enjoy this. Why else tempt us by introducing yet another necklace to the afternoon party? You’re here, in part, for the sport. That’s a given, and that’s a weakness I’ll freely exploit. If‚” he finishes, and lets the word linger in the air between them.
Havilland-Clegg cannot resist. “If?” he inquires.
“If … if you don’t mind,” Cinq-Mars says.
“Why should I mind? Fire away. Give it your best shot.”
“Thank you, Ben boy. I shall.”
He waits while Havilland-Clegg sips.
“Religion is a strange beast, don’t you agree? Immediately, people always think in terms of an orthodoxy, or a fixed set of beliefs. Yet the history of spirituality indicates that it’s in continuous flux. Pretty much like everything else in the universe. We keep learning. Many would like to stand still, no doubt. Say this, do that, call it a religion, brand it as being the truth, and if you don’t believe it, rot in hell. Nevertheless, the history of spirituality shows that change occurs, and when it does the era of change can be confusing to people.”
“I feel like I’m back in school. At a lecture. I liked school. Not the lectures.”
“Touché. I’ll cut to the chase. Right now, we’re going through another sea change. What science brings to our knowledge of the universe boggles the mind. What we forget, of course, is that that’s exactly what happens anytime spiritual development occurs—the mind is boggled. Make no mistake, the understanding that’s arriving about the universe is spiritually transformative, for those inclined to take it that way. Usually, when a new religion comes along, it attempts to obliterate what’s gone before, and that’s happening again. History is repeating itself. Monotheism obliterates polytheism, Christianity seeks to obliterate paganism, and so on. That’s all political, you understand, and what was previous survives in its way. The previous is incorporated to a certain extent within the new. You see, the past becomes manifest in the present in interesting ways.”
“You are going on about this why?”
Cinq-Mars opens his hands in a posture of togetherness. “Because, Benny, it’s fascinating. Don’t you think? Like you, I get distracted being at a university. I start having big ideas. Maybe it’s the books everywhere, the discussions, the very idea of an institution dedicated to learning and evaluating and to purposefully challenging the mind. That’s all glorious stuff. Of course, people might think that I’m trying to distract my suspect’s mind by talking like this. It’s true that I do that sort of thing. The more intelligent the person, the more complex are the notions that arise, in large measure so that I can squirm my way under the hood, and mess with the person’s head. Not to you, Ben. I’m not doing that to you.”
For once, Havilland-Clegg gulps his Manhattan. He wets his lips as he puts the glass down. “Or are you?” he asks. “Doing that here?”
“You’re right,” Cinq-Mars muses. “You’re right! You’re clever. I could be. Maybe I can’t help myself. Maybe it comes from wondering why you would introduce the necklace to the gathering this afternoon. To experience that, to better understand it, I introduced you to an aspect of my method. I’m saying to you, I’m messing with your mind to get under the hood, and you—for the moment, indulge me, let’s say that it was you—did you not have a girl today wear the talisman to show off your power. Your attitude is: I show you what I can do, and I can still do it, because you can’t stop me. You show me what you can do, because you don’t think you can be stopped. We’re a couple of egomaniacs, Ben! Do you think?”
Havilland-Clegg seems to be getting his footing, and recovers. “I see. You’re messing with me. What good did it do you?”
“What good did it do you? The necklace? Here today?”
“Ah, but it has nothing to do with me, you see.”
The comment provokes a smile from the detective. “Yes, Benny, and my interest in cosmology and spirituality has nothing to do with you. Except for this. We understand now that all carbon forms, not just people, carry knowledge that they pass along. Evolution and all that. Matter carries and transmits knowledge on many levels including the molecular. Through atoms and microbes and other elaborate and invisible forces, matter learns as it progresses. The quantum of our personal and paltry physiques carries knowledge! Mind-boggling. You, Bennington Havilland-Clegg, transport knowledge, every atom in you does, and my job is to extract that knowledge, to reveal it to the light of day.”
That supercilious smirk is back. Perfect.
“Go ahead, Cinq-Mars, tell me what you know.”
“If you insist. So you know, Ben, when they leave today and find themselves off campus, wondering where you are, Mr. Hanson Parker from New York and Mr. Al McBride from Kentucky will be placed under arrest and questioned at length. Be comforted, knowing that you’re not in this alone.”
The smugness abruptly vanishes from his visage, and his skin tone is pallid. This is the first mention that his possible coconspirators are known to the police.
“I know that you wrote the directive. Breached Run! Trouble is, the perfect crime becomes imperfect here. The message was meant for the boy, for Vernon Colchester. Did you know? That’s why he never showed up at his safe house, to be caught with the shot and butchered body of Malory Earle. I suppose your thugs were going to bop him on the head. Smear his hands and clothes in the woman’s blood. Report him. He didn’t get to the tree on time, where messages were exchanged. Professor Toomey got the message instead and I think he was flummoxed by it. A kid disciple of his says something has been breached and he’s supposed to run? What’s that about? Ah, but if the boy had received the message, that would mean his mentor was either in a jam or merely wanted to test him, so he’d run to the safe house. That’s how things went awry there.”
Havilland-Clegg permits his hands to rise slowly. “Safe house? Messages in a tree stump? Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“Tree bark.”
“Whatever. This has nothing to do with me.”
“Of course it does, Benny. Didn’t you recruit someone to spy on Vernon Colchester, to figure out why he was spying on you?”
“Who did I recruit?”
“Seriously? Do you think I don’t know?”
“If I don’t, how do you?”
“Addie Langford.”
“Who’s that? Oh. Oh. The dead girl. I see. She was my recruit, was she? Precious.”
“That’s how you gained her confidence,” Cinq-Mars reveals, and it’s questionable as to who is listening more keenly, the accused or the attending officers of the law. “That’s why she revealed Vernon’s secrets to you. That’s probably why she had an affair with Vernon in the first place. Boys weren’t her thing, you know, appearances to the contrary. That was how you were able to send her up a clock tower to meet a stranger, her future employer, she thought, without putting up a fight. Why did she carry on with Vernon, then break his heart, when she’d rather find a woman to love? She liked her hetero identity, always talked about her boys, then took her girlfriends to ground because they mattered more to her. Or maybe she was genuinely bisexual. The thing is, she was being recruited by you, just as Vernon was being recruited by Toomey.”
“And what, pray tell, was I recruiting her for?”
“What you told her is between the two of you and doesn’t interest me. You seduced her with an adventurous idea for a life of undercover work that captured her imagination. Young people are often susceptible to that sort of offer. You were the person she was relying on to give her a job. She probably crossed the bounds by telling her parents that she had a job lined up. All hush-hush, mysterious. As to what you were actually recruiting her for, that’s obvious. To die. To be your victim.”
Havilland-Clegg laughs a little, sips his drink again. “If it were not for the sordid accusations you could bring upon me, which I admit give me pause, I’d almost enjoy being in court while you attempt to make such a case.”
“You won’t. Enjoy it. Trust me. As we said, Homeland Security is involved, as well as the FBI. Can you honestly say that you and your pals haven’t left a digital trail behind? In what sour, perverted little chat room did you find one another? The small, frail, hand-shaking diplomatic, now financial adviser, with the strength of a mouse, the runt of the mouse litter, too weak to fulfill his rape fantasies without help. The tire man from Kentucky with the strength of an ox who wants to murder women, yet who isn’t willing to do it on his own because he has too much to lose and he’s smart enough to know that he’s not smart enough to get away with it. And then there’s you, the genteel heir, who could, if you wanted to, pay for sex in any of its myriad forms. Except for the one form you desire most. Your bout with cancer creates urgency, life is short and unpredictable, if you’re going to do what you most want to do then you have to get on with it. You don’t have it in you, nor do you have the desire, thankfully, to kill or to rape a living, breathing, fighting-back woman. Any physical engagement with a living person makes you ill. But you can now indulge your deepest desire, to love in your own sick way, a girl, a beautiful woman, who is comfortably, conveniently, dead. Not breathing. Inert. A woman who does not respond to your touch in strange and frightening ways. You arrange to have one man abduct, and another man rape, leaving each of you with airtight alibis if the crime is viewed as a single event committed by one person. Then the first man returns to commit the murder. In this scenario, you are left with the remains to abuse to your heart’s content.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. You have a different aesthetic. You doll her up, dress her up, put on her makeup, grace her throat with a talisman as tribute to your own brilliance and possession of her. Perhaps to hide the ligature marks, the only imperfection.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant that I wasn’t involved.”
“You rape the dead, Benny. It’s what you have always wanted to do, and now you’ve done it. Do you care to explain yourself, if you can? You’re not spiritually inclined. I am, and Benji, you may feel the need to unburden yourself of your loathsome desires.”
For a few moments, the combativeness of the man’s nature is evident, lurking under the skin, ready to jump. He takes a moment to regain his self-control, and with it, reverts to being smug.
“What?” Cinq-Mars asks. Seated beside him, Chief Till has been sitting back, observing this play out, beginning to grasp how the whole dire crime was orchestrated. Yet he’s aware that the premise has holes.
Their suspect brings one up. “I’ll grant you that your theory is elaborate, Cinq-Mars. I’ll admit that what frightens me here is that it just may be compelling enough to have people believe it. Fair-weather friends, for instance. This story goes out, I may not be trusted again. I’ll grant you the power that you have over me at the moment. However—” He pauses for effect. “I point out again, that the total lack of hard evidence won’t allow this innuendo—it’s no better than that, you’re aware of that yourself—your innuendo won’t pass muster in a court of law, if your charges even get that far before being tossed. I am innocent of these outrageous accusations, Cinq-Mars. What you’re doing is hoping that you can scare a guilty man into a confession. That won’t happen, not because I’m not scared, you do frighten me, but because I happen to be completely, and utterly, and totally innocent.”
In receiving the statement, Cinq-Mars rocks his shoulders, neck, and head slightly from side to side, and checks with his two colleagues. Then all three stare back at their suspect.
“Benny, no one is. Innocent,” Cinq-Mars attests. “Captain Hammond has a request.”
Havilland-Clegg looks at the trooper.
“Would you kindly show us your elbows?” Hammond asks.
“What? No. Why? I’m not showing you anything.”
“Sir, I can easily have the sleeves of your jacket and shirt cut off, if you prefer.”
That threat hangs in the air a moment.
Cinq-Mars says, “I’m pretty sure we can make it easier on you, Ben. Show us only your right elbow. I remember the circle made on the platform by the forensics team. For the live rape, I believe her hands were tied to the railing, so we know the angle of the body. A jury will be impressed by these details. Since you were dealing with a dead body, it’s likely that you untied her. To allow her to be more loving with you. But still, it’s in a certain position. Your right elbow should suffice. Ben. If you please.”
He takes his time. Removing his jacket, he folds it over his seat back, careful not to create any creases. He unfastens a cuff link on his shirt, which he tucks into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Then he says to Cinq-Mars, “It’s Bennington. You can call me Mr. Havilland-Clegg.”
“I know. Speak the truth, I’ll use it.”
The man’s right elbow is exposed. Hammond leans in close to it.
Cinq-Mars, as well. “Partially healed. Only partially.”
“A skimmed elbow is not a sign of guilt,” Havilland-Clegg remarks.
Without him noticing, Hammond has taken out a penknife, which he flashes quickly and takes a speck of skin and a dribble of blood from the man’s elbow.
“Hey! What the fuck! You can’t do that!”
“We just did. Relax. Elbows don’t hurt. Anyway, if you’re innocent, your DNA will be your best defense. You only need to be concerned if you’re guilty. This isn’t for the courts. Just for us.”
He has no argument to prevail in the matter, and the man unrolls his sleeve. Before he attaches the cuff link again, Cinq-Mars asks to see it. He examines it under a lamp. Then hands it back to him and watches as the man attaches it.
“Berman topaz,” Cinq-Mars says. “From Brazil. That’s the one stone that makes no particular sense in the necklace. The stone in your cuff link is the same. Berman topaz.”
“Coincidence.”
“Hardly. It fortifies the body against disease. You’ve been feeling the need in the past year to take help wherever it can be found. The rest of the necklace is a paean to love, death, and crossing over. My expert calls it a map. Maybe. We might study its geographic notes to see if they conform to times in your life. I think it’s about death, and love, and love in death, loving death, and equating death with love. I guess I was wrong, huh? You’re a spiritual man in your own way. In an evil way.”
He sits again and, with a rather stunning display of confidence, sips from his drink. “I could use another.”
“Enjoy. It may be your last ever.”
“I think not, Cinq-Mars. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, as absurd as your argument may be, that I am guilty of what you’re accusing me of.”
“Sure. Let’s say that.”
“Which means I’m guilty of abusing a corpse. I agree, that puts a dent in the social calendar. Fewer invitations. And yet, ask yourself, how much time do I get for that? Five years? Max? Three? First offense, how about fourteen months? Ah, with a great lawyer? Thirty days and time served. Time off for good behavior. Community service?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Hammond adds, a remark greeted by a scoff.
“Yeah. Good luck proving anything close to that. My lawyers against your district attorneys. What are the Vegas odds, do you think?”
“Ben,” Cinq-Mars advises him, “and you’ll be Ben with me until you speak the truth, I understand that that was your plan from the get-go. McBride murders both women, one for you, one for his own pleasure. Parker kills Toomey. You gave him an assignment. That’s the price to pay for raping a beautiful young woman if he wants to get away with it, scot-free. Squeeze a trigger. Put a bullet in Toomey’s brain. He’s all paid up.”
“If this—Mr. Parker, is it?—killed this guy Toomey, that’s on his head, not mine.”
Cinq-Mars rocks his shoulders as though taking that into consideration. “Yeah. He only got him in the throat anyway, but still, he did his part. It’s on his head. Lets you off the hook. Agreed. You’re in the clear, except for the abuse-of-corpse issue.”
“Hypothetically, if I’m convicted on that bogus charge, if things don’t go my way, I’ll probably be out in six months. Worst case.”
“Hypothetically. Give or take. Yet the matter has gone awry, Ben. You didn’t pin suspicion on Vernon Colchester, as planned. That was meant to cover your three asses for as long as you were up here in the north country. You were forced to put the necklace into play at the cocktail party, it wasn’t only for ego. Apart from everything else, Plan B, you cooked up a conspiracy where a couple of thugs did it. Pin the blame on two dead ex-cons. A good lawyer can swing that if you got into trouble. After all, you had the thugs deliver the necklace the other day ahead of the cocktail party, you made sure we picked that up on a camera, then you had them throw a boy from a speeding vehicle. They were being set up, all part of your perfect crime. That’s done with now.”
“Your avid imagination.”
“You don’t like my theory?”
“Doesn’t hold water.”
Cinq-Mars chuckles. “What does, hey? After all the rain we’ve had. Okay, another theory goes like this. You put the necklace on the neck of another young woman to tantalize the senses of your coconspirators. How’s that? Keeps them interested. They get keen on a next time and that keeps them under your thumb today. You bastard. Of course, that’s not going to happen now. Benny, I’m going to suggest to my esteemed colleagues that they pursue murder charges on the three of you.”
“Fat chance,” Havilland-Clegg determines. He bolsters his opinion with a grunt.
“McBride,” Cinq-Mars continues, “for Addie Langford and Malory Earle, Hanson for Lars Toomey, and you, Benny boy, for your two henchmen who have gone to their negligible reward. Before you bring out that smug, very unattractive grin, may I inform you of something that you don’t yet know? For a change of pace?”
The man stares back at him, confident still. “Just don’t bore me.”
“I promise. Benny, when you arrived back at your little hideout in the woods, one of the men recorded your arrival on his smartphone. He spoke into it as well. If shit happens here, this guy did it. That’s what he said. I don’t know why he didn’t trust you, Ben. Do you? What possible cause would he have? He recorded that message, took his little video of you showing up, time stamped, that was a bonus, then he put the phone out of sight. My God, but that’s going to impress a jury, don’t you think? You’ll like this part, too, it may be a comfort to you. The index finger of his right hand was on the trigger of his gun. No kidding. When we found him. Good thing you shot him first, Benji, because he was ready for you, he was wary. He nearly saved us a lot of trouble. Fortunately—for you, not so much for us—he hesitated.”
The four men remain seated in a circle, and for a full two minutes, no one utters a word. The silence seems to fill the space with a sense of grief mixed with jubilation, by some, and by a joy that now bleeds into an agony for one among them.
“And the second guy? You’d already shot him. He was lying in plastic in the trunk of your rental,” Cinq-Mars says.
He rises. He leans over Havilland-Clegg, placing his hands on the armrests on both sides of him. He has not commonly given suspects a verbal comeuppance. This time is different, a privilege of his retirement, perhaps. He’s no longer governed by any professional code of conduct, or by a superior’s guiding hand. He’s wanted to give many criminals a talking-to in his day. Now’s his chance.
“What was the problem with you, Benji?” he taunts him, his voice a notch above a whisper.
They’re nose to nose.
“Tired of blow-up dolls?”
“You turd,” the killer talks back.
“Move too much, did they? Squiggled around? Bounced?”
“Get away from me.”
“Was it like they were breathing? The way they moved? Was that getting to be too much for you? Too much like the real thing?”
“Get off me. You’re an imbecile. You’ll never know what we— What we had.”
“What were you going to say? What you what?”
“Shut up.”
“What you what? Say it!”
Havilland-Clegg thinks it over, then speaks calmly, even thoughtfully. “What we shared. All right? What do you know?”
“Oh, I’m missing out, am I? Go ahead. Tell me what you shared with a dead girl.”
Havilland-Clegg looks away, agitated again, set to strike.
“She was dead, Benji. Don’t you get that yet? Your great passion was for death. You were mated with death. A real woman? Life? For you? Impossible. What was it, an effect of the cancer, couldn’t make it anymore with a blow-up doll? They weren’t perfect enough for you anymore? I’m curious. Do you own a blow-up harem? Keep them in a closet? Or under your bed? Is that it? Did you pay girls to do it with you without moving? They’d always make a sound? Or breathe? You got greedier, wanted the more perfect doll.”
“Shut up with that.”
“Why?”
“Shut up with that!”
“Tell me what it was. What did you share?”
“You’ll never know. You’re not the least bit worthy to know like that. You’ll be ignorant forever, like the rest of the world.”
“Too much bounce in your blow-up dolls? For that, a girl had to die.”
“Up yours. Or is that too parochial a phrase for you?”
“Go ahead. Tell us what you shared raping a dead girl.”
“SHUT UP!” Havilland-Clegg is on his feet, knocking the taller man back a step.
“What’s the matter, Ben? Put off by the word? Rape? You rape the dead. That’s your thing. Do you honestly think it was something else?”
“You don’t know fuck-all! I saved that girl!”
“Oh! You saved her?”
“I rescued her! I saved her from this fucking world! You’ll never know what ecstasy is! You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re not capable. You’ll never know what we shared!”
“Tell me. I’m all ears.”
“Fuck you.”
“Tell me!” he yells. “Now! What was great? What did you share?”
“I said fuck you!”
“TELL ME!”
“Rapture!” He holds his gaze and his smirk returns. “Go ahead. Laugh. Imbecile. You’ll never know the meaning of the word. Few ever will. We shared rapture. What do you know anyway? About anything real.”
Cinq-Mars shakes his head slightly. “No, Benji. She was dead. She never knew you were there. She shared nothing, absolutely nothing with you. Not even a word. You had more communication with your blow-up dolls. Though I’m glad to hear—rapture, huh?—that you’re religious, too.” Cinq-Mars lowers his voice. “Did you get that?” he asks, but he’s no longer talking to Havilland-Clegg, and the man looks around, confused.
Coming to his feet, Chief Till shows off his mobile device. “Thanks for sharing,” he says.
“Abuse of a corpse, Benji,” Cinq-Mars tells him. “That was your escape hatch. Problem is, that hatch won’t stay open. We have video of you showing up to kill that man in the woods and now we have your recorded confession on the other charges. To top it off, we’re just beginning to collect evidence. Yet, you still don’t believe in God? You must. Rapture? Seriously? Come on.”
Captain Hammond is the last to rise. He’ll be professional now, and resorts to being polite. “Mr. Bennington Havilland-Clegg, turn around, please, sir. You will cross your hands behind your back.”
The man looks at him, glares at Cinq-Mars, then numbly complies.