Nowhere Pure, page 14
For the first time, Cole got a good look at the center of the room. She saw a small pile of objects on the floor: a scarf, a framed picture, a bottle of prescription pills, a tie, a necklace, and several other items.
Callaway saw it too. “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded.
A young woman swept her bangs away from her eyes and said, “We’re purifying ourselves and the world. It’s the only way to prevent nuclear Armageddon.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Richland said, his voice still brimming with anger.
“No?” Cole asked. “Then why don’t you explain it to us upstairs?”
“Party’s over!” Callaway shouted. “Everyone out!”
A look of pure hate filled Richland’s eyes. He glared at Cole. “It doesn’t matter what you do; you can’t stop us. One way or another, the world will be cleansed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
How long would it take him to grab one of those knives? Cole wondered, looking from the seated doctor to the block of knives on the counter.
Cole had dealt with enough criminals to understand there was a difference between anger and violent intent. Some people did not become physically aggressive, even in the grip of strong emotions, while others were quick to express their feelings with violence.
Richland, she sensed, could very well fall into the latter camp. She would have to keep a close eye on him—as well as those knives and any other weapons he might have lying around.
“That’s the last of them,” Callaway said, closing the front door. “I just hope they can get back to their dorms without walking into traffic.”
Cole nodded, grateful to have the group of college kids who had gathered in Richland’s basement now gone from the house. Judging by the doctor’s glare, she had a feeling that dealing with him would be difficult enough even without anyone else’s interference.
Cole pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “I’m curious,” she asked. “What were those items in the middle of the room? The ones on the floor?”
Richland hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to engage in conversation at all. “Symbols,” he said. “Of the people we all used to be. We were going to burn them, show ourselves and one another that we’re making a clean break from the past. We’re just a group of like-minded individuals tired of being weighed down by people and experiences we no longer need. We weren’t sacrificing chickens down there if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Cole nodded. “That makes sense. A young woman mentioned something about preventing ‘nuclear Armageddon.’ Do you know what she was talking about?”
“Apparently, she’s read some of my articles.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “The great powers of the world are on a collision course, and unless we cut ties with past grievances—as individuals and as nations—we’ll destroy one another in epic fashion. We were down there doing our small part—purifying ourselves, you might say. And I intend to keep writing articles to spread this much needed message.”
For a man focused on purifying himself and others, Cole thought, you sure carry a lot of hate inside.
“Why’d you remove all the lightbulbs up here?” she asked. “Seems like an odd choice.”
Richland sighed, as if Cole were trying his patience. “It’s very important to create a certain … atmosphere for things like this. Believe me, I would have things set up very differently if I owned the place, but I rent from an old lady who is very particular about how I keep things. Most of it belonged to her late husband, I’m told.”
“Hence why you were in the basement,” Cole said.
Richland nodded, then raised a finger. “And, I hasten to add, those students all came of their own free will. I didn’t compel anyone.”
“You may not have compelled anyone,” Callaway agreed mildly, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms, “but you did host this little fiesta.” He gestured at the bag of mushrooms resting on the edge of the table. “Supplied some interesting appetizers too. What are those, anyway?”
“Mushrooms,” Richland said stubbornly. “They’re good for the digestive system.”
Callaway chuckled. “I’m sure they are. Give you a little buzz, too, don’t they? Mellow those kids out, make them more … tractable?”
Richland stared back balefully and said nothing.
Cole leaned on her fist and studied the doctor. “I can’t help noticing,” she said, “how sober you seem. Based on the way your friends were acting, I’m guessing those mushrooms have some hallucinogenic properties. You appear to be stone-cold sober, though.”
Richland’s voice was low and resentful. “Someone has to take charge, don’t you think? The captain of the cruise doesn’t get drunk with all his guests, does he?”
Callaway grinned. “I ain’t never been served mushrooms on a cruise. I’ve been missing out all this time. What about you, Cole?”
“It was an analogy,” Richland said. “Ever heard of it, you ignorant hick?”
Callaway did not so much as blink at the insult. His grin only broadened, as if amused by Richland’s lack of control.
“I might not have half the education you do,” he said, “but even an ignorant hick knows better than to get caught distributing illegal substances—especially in his own home.” He chuckled. “There’s educated, and there’s smart, and in your case, I’d say there ain’t a whole lot of overlap.”
Richland sprang from his chair before Callaway had even finished speaking. Cole did so as well, striking her knee painfully on the edge of the table, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to get to Richland in time to stop whatever he was about to do.
As it happened, there was no need. Callaway, apparently anticipating such a response, dipped to the side as Richland threw a left punch. Richland’s fist connected with the side of the refrigerator, and he howled in pain and rage. Taking advantage of the distraction, Callaway caught the arm of the professor and twisted it behind his back, forcing him toward the chair once again.
“Why don’t you be a good boy and have a seat?” Callaway said with a tight smile.
Richland clutched his fist and grimaced, gently rocking back and forth as if to soothe himself.
Watching him, Cole hoped that whatever rage Richland felt toward the two agents, he had just gotten it out of his system. Only time would tell, however.
“I’m going to be honest,” Cole said, leaning her forearms on the table. “You were hosting a party at which illegal substances were being used, so we can hold you on that, but we actually came to speak with you about something else.”
Richland showed no sign he had heard her. He went on staring at his fist, rocking back and forth, back and forth.
Cole decided to go on. “You’re a history professor at Cibola, correct?”
“That’s right,” Richland said.
Cole pursed her lips, thinking how to broach the subject. The incident with Callaway had clearly bruised the professor’s ego, which might make him even more resentful and unwilling to talk. Cole thought she knew how to change that, however.
“We’ve been investigating a series of murders,” she said. “And we think you might be able to help us.”
A wary look entered his eyes as he glanced at her. “Go on.”
Callaway, standing behind Richland, frowned as if perplexed. Cole, however, could not very well explain her plan in front of Richland, so she went on.
“Someone,” she said, “has been murdering people connected with the Manhattan Project, and we heard you were something of an expert on the subject.”
Seconds passed. Richland stared at the table, his face gradually relaxing. He stopped rocking and lowered his injured hand. When he looked up, there was a brightness in his eyes that had not been there before.
“I’m familiar with the Project,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
Cole sighed and smiled, as if relieved. “I’m glad to know we weren’t wasting our time coming out here. The killer we’re chasing is quite clever, and frankly, he’s stumped us.”
Richland nodded, eating up every word. Callaway rolled his eyes.
“You wrote an article about the scientists involved in the Project, correct?” Cole asked.
Richland nodded again. “I’ve written a number about them, actually.”
“There was one line in particular that stood out to me …” She trailed off, frowning and glancing to the side as if she couldn’t quite remember, though in truth, she knew the line word-for-word. “Something about hanging them by their neckties.”
A small, self-satisfied grin tugged at the corner of Richland’s mouth as he leaned back in his chair. “That’s right.”
So much for cutting ties with past grievances, Cole thought.
“Those are strong words,” she said. “I’m curious to know what caused you to write that.”
“Did you read the rest of the article?”
Cole sighed, feigning embarrassment. “I have to confess that it went a bit over my head.”
“That’s how it goes for a lot of people. Some of my students joke about needing a translator just so they can dumb down my lectures.” He chuckled. Callaway shook his head in disgust.
“Could you dumb it down for me, then?” Cole asked. “Maybe explain, in layman’s terms, why those scientists should be punished?”
“Well,” Richland said slowly, “punishment is, to some extent, a moot point since most of them are dead. The next closest thing, I suppose, would be to go after their descendants.” He paused, and Cole resisted the urge to meet Callaway’s eyes.
Keep on talking, professor, she thought. I’m all ears.
Richland shook his head, as if breaking from some private reverie. “The point I was trying to make was that those scientists are responsible for the single most hellish invention in the history of humanity, and there have been no consequences. They’re not even condemned by the world at large.”
“Makes you wish someone would do something about it,” Cole said.
Richland stared at her, and his eyes grew cold again. “What is this really about? Coming in here, treating me like an expert—” He snorted. “If you’d wanted my advice, you would have called and set up a time to meet. You wouldn’t just show up at my home uninvited.”
Cole waited, watching as understanding dawned over the professor’s face. She realized her words had been too on-the-nose, but there was no taking them back now.
Richland gave Callaway a mistrustful glance. “You’re here to arrest me, aren’t you? You think I’m some murderer.”
“Are you?” Callaway asked.
Richland’s smile, so incongruous with the seriousness of the subject, sent a chill down Cole’s back. “You really came in here on a prayer and a hope, didn’t you? You’re grasping at straws, looking for any candidate who fits the bill.”
“Just answer the question,” Callaway said, growing impatient.
Richland leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed and pleased with himself. “You think I’d be stupid enough to publicly rail against those scientists, then privately spend my time killing their descendants?”
That caught Cole’s attention. “We didn’t tell you who the victims were. So, how do you know they were the descendants of the scientists?”
Richland shrugged. “Elementary, as Sherlock Holmes liked to say. Nearly all the original scientists are already dead, so it stands to reason that the next best thing would be to target their children—and children’s children, maybe. I’m highly familiar with the Project and those reprehensible individuals involved in the research, but I can’t say I ever made it a priority to follow up on their extended families.”
Cole studied him, unsure what to think. He seemed so calm, almost amused by their suspicion. Did he have some trump card to prove his innocence? Was he toying with them, letting their suspicions grow so that the shock would be even greater when he demonstrated that he could not possibly have committed the murders?
“Where were you this morning, Professor Richland?” she asked.
Richland flicked a breadcrumb off the table with his thumb and forefinger. “I took a personal day, needed a break from the grind. You can only crawl into a textbook for so long before the covers start to close over you.”
Cole glanced at Callaway, who was watching the professor intently.
“What did you do with your time off?” she asked.
He shrugged one shoulder, frowning as if it were difficult to remember. “Went to a market in Santa Fe. Browsed some bookstores, picked up a few gems.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Seven, eight o’clock.”
“And how did you pay for the books? Credit card?”
Richland shook his head. “Cash.”
“Any receipts?” Cole asked.
He shook his head again. “Didn’t suppose I’d need them.”
No alibi, she thought. So, why is he so calm? Does he think he’s invincible—too clever to be caught?
“And how long were you there?” she asked.
Richland stared up at the ceiling and took a deep breath through his nostrils. “Until, I don’t know, four or five this evening. I picked up fast food—not something I ordinarily do, but I cheat now and then—wandered through an art fair, then took a nap in my car.”
Listening to him, Cole couldn’t tell whether he was recalling the events as they came to him or if he was inventing them on the spot. She had the impression that, whether or not he was telling them the truth, he felt no compulsion to be honest with them. It was as if he believed he would escape the consequences of the crimes no matter what the agents discovered.
Richland seemed to sense what she was thinking. “You’re wasting your time with me,” he said. “I didn’t murder those people, so you should probably get back to looking for the person who did.”
“Took you a long time to deny it,” Callaway said.
“Well, maybe that’s because I’m not sorry about what happened to them. I wish I could take the credit, to tell you the truth—at least I’d be doing something.”
“By murdering innocent people who had nothing to do with the Project?” Cole asked, unable to keep her indignation in check any longer.
“Ever heard the phrase ‘the sins of the fathers’?” Richland waved a dismissive hand, as if to suggest he didn’t want to explore that topic any further. “Of course, it’s not ideal—the scientists themselves should have been punished. But since that option’s off the table …” He shrugged. “Sometimes, fair or not, someone has to serve as an example. They must be sacrificed for the good of the rest.”
He leaned back and sighed, looking tired of the discussion. “Listen, you should really be investigating those creeps who fetishize Oppenheimer. They’re practically in love with him for his nuclear program, which is why I wanted nothing to do with them.”
Cole frowned, puzzled. “Wait a minute, what people are you talking about?”
“There was an individual who sent me some … colorful emails about my articles. Told me I was a peace-loving hippie, and if everyone thought like me, we’d have become a Soviet satellite a long time ago.”
“But why would someone who supported the Project want to harm the descendants of the scientists?”
“Because he believes Oppenheimer and his cronies didn’t go far enough. Had the scientists done their jobs the right way—so the thinking goes—we would have leveraged those nuclear weapons to gain global domination—which, according to him, would have given us the opportunity to guide the course of humanity through one cohesive body, weeding out the undesirables and cultivating the profitable strains, to use a gardening analogy.”
“Shit,” Callaway muttered. “Sounds like Nazism.”
Cole leaned forward, her eyes intent on the professor’s face. “Do you still have those emails?”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
“Dang, Harley,” Ray Ranganathan said with a note of disbelief. “What kind of person are you dealing with here?”
Cole, seated in the office of Richland’s home while Callaway continued to interrogate the professor in the kitchen, understood Ray’s surprise. She felt the same way as she read one of the emails sent to Dr. Richland, which was equal parts political missive and personal diatribe.
Richland had balked at the idea of giving Cole access to his email account, but after reminding him how quickly his career would be ruined if word got out about his cult-like parties, he had relented. Next, Cole had called Ray Ranganathan for help tracking down the person who had sent the emails.
“Someone you wouldn’t want to share a beer with,” she said. “Not unless you wanted to listen to him rant for hours about ‘national destiny’ and why it’s appropriate for the strong to overpower the weak.”
Ray made a scoffing sound. “If he talks like he writes, I’d need quite a few beers just to maintain my sanity. Speaking of getting drinks—”
“Not gonna happen, Ray. We’ve talked about this.”
Ray sighed. “Listen to us, bickering like an old, married couple. We should make a pact. If neither of us gets married in the next, say, three years, then we’ll marry each other. Deal?”
“How about we make a pact that you get back to working on this and I won’t shoot you?”
Ray clucked his tongue, putting on the air of a long-suffering spouse. “You know, Harley, sometimes I think we need counseling. It’s the only way we’ll ever work through our problems.”
Cole rolled her eyes. Inwardly, she had a fondness for Ray—he was a good kid, after all—but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“There’s no question this is the guy Richland was talking about,” she said, ignoring Ray’s comment. “But can you track his email address?”
Ray showed no sign of being at all offended by Cole’s rejection, which was one of the reasons she liked him. “For you, Harley? Anything.”
