"Yes. But one counterexample doesn't disprove a theory."
"I'm sorry if you feel your project is threatened by this."
"That's not the reason I'm saying it's not him." Jeannie sighed. "Hell, maybe it is. I don't know anymore. Where are you now?"
"At home."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine, now that he's locked up in jail."
"He seems so nice."
"They're the worst kind, Mish told me. The ones that seem perfectly normal on the surface are the cleverest and most ruthless, and they enjoy making women suffer."
"My God."
"I'm going to bed, I'm exhausted. I just wanted to tell you. How was your evening?"
"So-so. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."
"I still want to go to Richmond with you."
Jeannie had planned to take Lisa to help her interview Dennis Pinker. "Do you feel up to it?"
"Yes, I really want to go on living a normal life. I'm, not sick, I don't need to convalesce."
"Dennis Pinker will probably be Steve Logan's double."
"I know. I can handle it."
"If you're sure."
"I'll call you early."
"Okay. Good night."
Jeannie sat down heavily. Could Steven's engaging nature be no more than a mask? I must be a bad judge of character if that's so, she thought. And maybe a bad scientist too: perhaps all identical twins will turn out to be identically criminal. She sighed.
Her own criminal ancestry sat beside her. "That professor is a nice-looking guy, but he must be older than me!" he said. "You having a thing with him, or what?"
Jeannie wrinkled her nose. "The bathroom's through there, Daddy," she said.
13
STEVE WAS BACK IN THE INTERROGATION ROOM WITH THE yellow walls. The same two cigarette butts were still in the ashtray. The room had not changed, but he had. Three hours ago he had been a law-abiding citizen, innocent of any crime worse than driving at sixty in a fifty-five zone. Now he was a rapist, arrested and identified by the victim and accused. He was in the justice machine, on the conveyor. He was a criminal. No matter how often he reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong, he could not shake the feeling of worthlessness and ignominy.
Earlier he had seen the woman detective, Sergeant Delaware. Now the other one, the man, came in, also carrying a blue folder. He was Steve's height but much broader and heavier, with iron gray hair cut short and a bristling mustache. He sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes. Without speaking, he tapped out a cigarette, lit it, and dropped the match in the ashtray. Then he opened the folder. Inside was yet another form. This one was headed
DISTRICT COURT OF MARYLAND
FOR (City/County)
The top half was divided into two columns headed COMPLAINANT and DEFENDANT. A little lower down it said
STATEMENT OF CHARGES
The detective began to fill out the form, still without speaking. When he had written a few words he lifted the white top sheet and checked each of four attached carbon copies: green, yellow, pink, and tan.
Reading upside down, Steve saw that the victim's name was Lisa Margaret Hoxton. "What's she like?" he said.
The detective looked at him. "Shut the fuck up," he said. He drew on his cigarette and continued writing.
Steve felt demeaned. The man was abusing him and he was powerless to do anything about it. It was another stage in the process of humiliating him, making him feel insignificant and helpless. You bastard, he thought, I'd like to meet you outside of this building, without your damn gun.
The detective began filling in the charges. In box number one he wrote Sunday's date, then "at Jones Falls University gymnasium, Balto., MD." Below he wrote, "Rape, 1st degree." In the next box he put the place and date again, then "Assault with intent to rape."
He picked up a continuation sheet and added two more charges: "Battery" and "Sodomy."
"Sodomy?" Steve said in surprise.
"Shut the fuck up."
Steve was ready to punch him out. This is deliberate, he told himself. The guy wants to provoke me. If I throw a punch at him, he has an excuse to call three other guys in here to hold me down while he kicks the shit out of me. Don't do it, don't do it.
When he finished writing, the detective turned the two forms around and pushed them across the table at Steve. "You're in bad trouble, Steve. You've beaten and raped and sodomized a girl--"
"No, I haven't."
"Shut the fuck up."
Steve bit his lip and remained silent.
"You're scum. You're shit. Decent people don't even want to be in the same room as you. You've beaten and raped and sodomized a girl. I know it's not the first time. You've been doing it awhile. You're sly, and you plan, and you've always got away with it in the past. But this time you've been caught. Your victim has identified you. Other witnesses place you near the scene at the time. In an hour or so, just as soon as Sergeant Delaware has gotten a search or seizure warrant from the court commissioner on duty, we're going to take you over to Mercy Hospital and do a blood test and comb through your pubic hair and show that your DNA matches what we found in the victim's vagina."
"How long does that take--the DNA test?"
"Shut the fuck up. You're nailed, Steve. Do you know what's going to happen to you?"
Steve said nothing.
"The penalty for first-degree rape is life imprisonment. You're going to jail, and you know what's going to happen there? You're going to get a taste of what you've been dishing out. A good-looking youngster like you? No problem. You're going to be beaten and raped and sodomized. You're going to find out how Lisa felt. Only in your case it will go on for years and years and years."
He paused, picked up the cigarette packet, and offered it to Steve.
Surprised, Steve shook his head.
"By the way, I'm Detective Brian Allaston." He lit a cigarette. "I really don't know why I'm telling you this, but there is a way you can make it better for yourself."
Steve frowned, curious. What was coming now?
Detective Allaston got up, walked around the table, and sat on its edge, with one foot on the floor, intimately close to Steve. He leaned forward and spoke in a softer voice. "Let me lay it out for you. Rape is vaginal intercourse, using force or the threat of force, against the will or without the consent of the woman. For it to be first-degree rape, there has to be an aggravating factor such as kidnapping, disfigurement, or rape by two or more persons. The penalties for second-degree rape are lower. Now, if you can persuade me that what you did was only second degree, you could do yourself a great big favor."
Steve said nothing.
"Do you want to tell me how it happened?"
At last Steve spoke. "Shut the fuck up," he said.
Allaston moved very fast. He came off the table, grabbed Steve by the front of his shirt, lifted him out of the chair, and slammed him against the cinder-block wall. Steve's head jerked back and hit the wall with a painful bang.
He froze, clenching his fists at his sides. Don't do it, he said to himself, don't fight back. It was hard. Detective Allaston was overweight and out of condition, and Steve knew he could lay the bastard out in no time. But he had to control himself. All he had to hold on to was his innocence. If he beat up a cop, no matter how he had been provoked, he would be guilty of a crime. And then he might as well give up. He would lose heart if he did not have that sense of righteous indignation to buoy him up. So he stood there, rigid, his teeth clenched, while Allaston pulled him off the wall and slammed him back twice, three times, four times.
"Don't ever speak to me like that again, you punk," Allaston said.
Steve felt his rage ebb away. Allaston was not even hurting him. This was theater, he realized. Allaston was acting a part and doing it badly. He was the tough guy and Mish was the nice one. In a while she would come in and offer him coffee and pretend to be his friend. But she would have the same aim as Allaston: to persuade Steve to confess to the ra
pe of a woman he had never met called Lisa Margaret Hoxton. "Let's cut the crap, Detective," he said. "I know you're a tough son of a bitch with hairs growing out of your nostrils, and you know that if we were somewhere else and you didn't have that gun on your belt I could beat the shit out of you, so let's stop trying to prove ourselves."
Allaston looked surprised. No doubt he had expected Steve to be too scared to speak. He let go of Steve's shirtfront and walked to the door.
"They told me you were a smart-ass," he said. "Well, let me tell you what I'm going to do for your education. You're going back to the cells for a while, but this time you'll have company. You see, all the forty-one empty cells down there are somehow out of commission, so you're going to have to share with a guy called Rupert Butcher, known as Porky. You think you're a big motherfucker, but he's bigger. He's coming down from a three-day crack party, so he has a headache. Last night, around the time you were setting fire to the gymnasium and sticking your nasty dick into poor Lisa Hoxton, Porky Butcher was stabbing his lover to death with a gardening fork. You should enjoy one another. Let's go."
Steve was scared. All his courage ebbed away as if a plug had been pulled, and he felt defenseless and defeated. The detective had humiliated him without really threatening to hurt him badly; but a night with a psychopath was seriously dangerous. This Butcher character had already committed a murder: if he were capable of rational thought he would know that he had little to lose by committing another.
"Wait a minute," Steve said shakily.
Allaston turned back slowly. "Well?"
"If I confess, I get a cell to myself."
Relief showed in the detective's expression. "Sure," he said. His voice had suddenly become friendly.
The change of tone caused Steve to burn with resentment. "But if I don't, I get murdered by Porky Butcher."
Allaston spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
Steve felt his fear turn to hatred. "In that case, Detective," he said, "fuck you."
The surprised look came back into Allaston's face. "You bastard," he said. "We'll see if you're so goddamn feisty in another couple of hours. Come on."
He took Steve to the elevator and escorted him to the cell block. Spike was still there. "Put this creep in with Porky," Allaston told him.
Spike raised his eyebrows. "That bad, huh?"
"Yeah. And by the way--Steve here has nightmares."
"That so?"
"If you hear him cry out--don't worry about it, he's just dreaming."
"I get you," Spike said.
Allaston left and Spike took Steve to his cell.
Porky was lying on the bunk. He was about Steve's height but a lot heavier. He looked like a bodybuilder who had been in a car wreck: his bloodstained T-shirt was stretched tight over bulging muscles. He lay on his back, head toward the rear of the cell, feet hanging over the end of the bunk. He opened his eyes when Spike unlocked the gate and let Steve in.
It crashed shut and Spike locked it.
Porky opened his eyes and stared at Steve.
Steve stared back for a moment.
"Sweet dreams," Spike said.
Porky closed his eyes again.
Steve sat on the floor, with his back to the wall, and watched Porky sleep.
14
BERRINGTON JONES DROVE HOME SLOWLY. HE FELT DISAPPOINTED and relieved at the same time. Like a dieter who wrestles with temptation all the way to the ice-cream parlor, then finds it closed, he had been saved from something he knew he ought not to do.
He was no closer to solving the problem of Jeannie's project and what it might uncover, however. Maybe he should have spent more time questioning her and less having fun. He frowned in perplexity as he parked outside the house and went in.
The place was quiet: Marianne, the housekeeper, must have gone to bed. He went into the den and checked his answering machine. There was one message.
"Professor, this is Sergeant Delaware from the Sex Crimes Unit calling on Monday night. I appreciate your cooperation today." Berrington shrugged. He had done little more than confirm that Lisa Hoxton worked at Nut House. She went on: "As you are Ms. Hoxton's employer and the rape took place on campus, I thought I should tell you we have arrested a man this evening. In fact, he was a subject at your laboratory today. His name is Steven Logan."
"Jesus!" Berrington burst out.
"The victim picked him out at the lineup, so I'm sure the DNA test will confirm that he is the man. Please pass this information on to any others at the college whom you think appropriate. Thank you."
"No!" Berrington said. He sat down heavily. "No," he said more quietly.
Then he began to weep.
After a moment he got up, still crying, and closed the study door, for fear the maid might come in. Then he returned to his desk and buried his head in his hands.
He stayed that way for some time.
When at last the tears dried up, he lifted the phone and called a number he knew by heart.
"Not the answering machine, please, God," he said aloud as he listened to it ring out.
A young man answered. "Hello?"
"This is me," Berrington said.
"Hey, how are you?"
"Desolate."
"Oh." The tone was guilty.
If Berrington had any doubts, that note in the voice swept them away. "You know what I'm calling about, don't you."
"Tell me."
"Don't play games with me, please. I'm talking about Sunday night."
The young man sighed. "Okay."
"You goddamn fool. You went to the campus, didn't you? You--" He realized he should not say too much on the phone. "You did it again."
"I'm sorry--"
"You're sorry!"
"How did you know?"
"At first I didn't suspect you--I thought you'd left town. Then they arrested someone who looks just like you."
"Wow! That means I'm--"
"You're off the hook."
"Wow. What a break. Listen ..."
"What?"
"You wouldn't say anything. To the police, or anything."
"No, I won't say a word," Berrington said with a heavy heart. "You can rely on me."
TUESDAY
15
THE CITY OF RICHMOND HAD AN AIR OF LOST GRANDEUR, AND Jeannie thought Dennis Pinker's parents fit right in. Charlotte Pinker, a freckled redhead in a whispering silk dress, had the aura of a great Virginia lady even though she lived in a frame house on a narrow lot. She said she was fifty-five, but Jeannie guessed she was probably nearer sixty. Her husband, whom she referred to as "the Major," was about the same age, but he had the careless grooming and unhurried air of a man who had long retired. He winked roguishly at Jeannie and Lisa and said: "Would you girls like a cocktail?"
His wife had a refined southern accent, and she spoke a little too loudly, as if she were perpetually addressing a meeting. "For mercy's sake, Major, it's ten o'clock in the morning!"
He shrugged. "Just trying to get the party off to a good start."
"This is no party--these ladies are here to study us. It's because our son is a murderer."
She called him "our son," Jeannie noted; but that did not mean a lot. He might still have been adopted. She was desperate to ask about Dennis Pinker's parentage. If the Pinkers admitted that he was adopted, that would solve half the puzzle. But she had to be careful. It was a delicate question. If she asked too abruptly, they were more likely to lie. She forced herself to wait for the right moment.
She was also on tenterhooks about Dennis's appearance. Was he Steven Logan's double or not? She looked eagerly at the photographs in cheap frames around the little living room. All had been taken years ago. Little Dennis was pictured in a stroller, riding a tricycle, dressed for baseball, and shaking hands with Mickey Mouse in Disneyland. There were no pictures of him as an adult. No doubt the parents wanted to remember the innocent boy before he became a convicted murderer. In consequence, Jeannie learned nothing from the photographs. Th
at fair-haired twelve-year-old might now look exactly like Steven Logan, but he could equally well have grown up ugly and stunted and dark.
Both Charlotte and the Major had filled out several questionnaires in advance, and now they had to be interviewed for about an hour each. Lisa took the Major into the kitchen and Jeannie interviewed Charlotte.
Jeannie had trouble concentrating on the routine questions. Her mind kept wandering to Steve in jail. She still found it impossible to believe he could be a rapist. It was not just because that would spoil her theory. She liked the guy: he was smart and engaging, and he seemed kind. He also had a vulnerable side: his bafflement and distress at the news that he had a psychopathic twin had made her want to put her arms around him and comfort him.
When she asked Charlotte if any other family members had ever been in trouble with the law, Charlotte turned her imperious gaze on Jeannie and drawled: "The men in my family have always been terribly violent." She breathed in through flared nostrils. "I'm a Marlowe by birth, and we are a hot-blooded family."
That suggested that Dennis was not adopted or that his adoption was not acknowledged. Jeannie concealed her disappointment. Was Charlotte going to deny that Dennis could be a twin?
The question had to be asked. Jeannie said: "Mrs. Pinker, is there any chance Dennis might have a twin?"
"No."
The response was flat: no indignation, no bluster, just factual.
"You're sure."
Charlotte laughed. "My dear, that's one thing a mother could hardly make a mistake about!"
"He definitely isn't adopted."
"I carried that boy in my womb, may God forgive me."
Jeannie's spirits fell. Charlotte Pinker would lie more readily than Lorraine Logan, Jeannie judged, but all the same it was strange and worrying that they should both deny their sons were twins.
She felt pessimistic as they took their leave of the Pinkers. She had a feeling that when she met Dennis she would find he looked nothing like Steve.
Their rented Ford Aspire was parked outside. It was a hot day. Jeannie was wearing a sleeveless dress with a jacket over it for authority. The Ford's air conditioner groaned and pumped out tepid air. She took off her panty hose and hung her jacket on the rear-seat coat hook.
Jeannie drove. As they pulled onto the highway, heading for the prison, Lisa said: "It really bothers me that you think I picked the wrong guy."