The Authorities, page 18
“And that’s how it started,” Max said, nodding sagely.
“No, that’s not how it started. That’s the whole story.” Her demeanor had changed quickly from sad to frustrated. She didn’t seem angry at Max. She seemed angry at herself for not being able to get her point across. She glanced at Sloan and Rutherford as if looking for assistance, but of course they were as in the dark as Max was.
Max took a deep breath, then said “I know that it’s not really anything you want to discuss, but we might understand better if you started at the beginning. I promise, we aren’t looking for scandal. We’re just trying to figure out what happened to Dr. Arledge.”
Molly flopped back in the recliner, sighed, and said, “What the hell. The real story isn’t nearly as bad as what everybody thinks anyway. I’ve been in therapy since I was in high school. My parents worried I might be getting an eating disorder, and they wanted to stop it before it started.”
“Did you develop an eating disorder?”
“No, but now we’ll never know if I would have or not, which is fine with me. Anyway, I stayed in therapy. In college, I had difficulty connecting with other people. People would show an interest, but they’d always end up pulling away after they got to know me. I was referred to Dr. Arledge because he was studying the kind of problems I was having, and I started the therapy.”
“And was it helpful?”
“Very. Particularly group therapy, once I figured out what was going on. After the third session I went to Daniel to complain. I felt like no one else was really opening up. I heard a lot about Erin’s kid, and Oscar tried out plenty of material on us, but they never really said anything about themselves. Derek would throw everything back in your face if you asked a question, and even making eye contact with Dustin was a mistake. So Dan . . . Dr. Arledge asked why I thought they might be behaving that way, and I said that they were trying to avoid exposing themselves. He said, ‘As if they are hiding behind masks.’ I said ‘Yeah, exactly.’ Then he said, ‘Like a clown might.’”
Max slapped his knee and exclaimed, “Ongelofelijk!”
Rutherford looked perplexed.
Sloan said, “I think it’s Dutch for wow.”
Molly also looked perplexed.
Rutherford said, “It’s Dutch for wow.”
Molly said, “Thanks.”
Sloan said, “You’re both welcome.”
Max shook his head. “It’s not Dutch for wow. Dutch for wow is wauw. Ongelofelijk means something like incredible.”
“Incredible is right,” Molly said. “I realized that I was doing the same thing as them. I wasn’t just hiding as a clown . . . I was hiding behind clowning. I didn’t think I was interesting, and I wanted people to think that I was, so I’d always steer the conversation toward the most interesting thing I knew about, which was clowning. But I see now that most people don’t find clowning interesting. Guys don’t strike up a conversation with me because they want to know about clowns. They want to know about me, but all I wanted to talk about was clowns.”
“That’s quite a realization to have about yourself,” Max said.
“And it goes way beyond me. I paid extra attention at group therapy after that and I realized why the other patients’ lack of ability to talk about themselves was so off-putting. People don’t want to share with someone who won’t share back. You don’t want to be genuine with someone who’s being fake. Oscar in particular gave me the creeps, because he didn’t really talk, he just tried out his act and disguised it as conversation.”
“That would be unpleasant,” Max said.
“And I think that’s why no entertainer makes people more uncomfortable than clowns! We clowns try to elicit a genuine reaction from people while showing them nothing but an artificial persona! People find it excruciating! Think about it—the two most famous clowns are known for being sad and being evil.”
Sloan nodded and said, “Pagliacci and the Joker.”
Rutherford frowned at Sloan, then turned to Molly and said, “Pagliacci and John Wayne Gacy.”
Molly blanched, and said, “No, I was referring to the Joker.” She did not hear the artificial voice say, “Laughing.”
“Really,” Molly continued, “Daniel and I agreed that I’d gotten what I needed from group already, but I kept going because it was so interesting. It’s a really powerful idea. It could improve the lives of every clown, or it would make for a good thesis if I ever decide to do a doctorate.”
“Wouldn’t that have interfered with the book he was planning to write?”
“No, he was going for a broader, pop psychology Why do my relationships fail? sort of thing. I planned to focus specifically on improving clowning.”
“So you continued to attend group meetings for your own research,” Max said.
“Yeah, and I’d stay late to compare notes with Daniel.”
“And that’s when you started getting close?” Max asked.
“He was so wise and kind,” she said. “And he was the first man I had really connected with in so long. One night, I got overexcited and I kissed him. He kissed me back for about half a second, then we both realized what we were doing and stopped. I was so embarrassed. I just got out of there.”
Professor Sherwood said, “But it grew from there.” He had stopped scanning with his wand and was following the conversation intently.
“Oh, now you’re interested,” Sloan said.
“No, it didn’t grow from there. It ended there. That was it! One night I got stupid and kissed an older man. That was the end of it. I came back to group the next week because I thought it would look funny if I didn’t, and I was still getting a lot out of it anyway, but Daniel got all uptight when he saw me. That made me act stiff, and that was all it took for the others to figure out that something had happened.”
“But if what you say is true, nothing happened,” Max said.
“Not nothing,” she corrected him. “Practically nothing, and that makes a huge difference. Anything we could have said would have sounded like an excuse, so we didn’t say anything, and the whole mess gave certain members of the group the thing they wanted most—something other than their feelings to talk about.”
“Did Mrs. Arledge ever find out?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Someone sent her a link to Oscar’s YouTube clip. Five minutes of nonstop jokes and occasional laughter, all at our expense.”
“Was she angry?”
“I assume she was. Some comic she’d never met was telling the world that her husband was having sex with a clown. Even I know it doesn’t get more embarrassing than that.”
SEVENTEEN
The consensus was that Molly Belanger was not a suspect. She had no clear motive, and she didn’t seem capable of murder. Of course, both of those things could be faked, but she also had one of the greatest alibis in the history of criminal investigation. She had performed at a children’s sleepover party in South Tacoma on the night of the murder, and while she’d left the party at a little after 8:45 p.m., there was no way she could have made it to Dr. Arledge’s office in time to kill him. The team fed Terri the details and she managed to confirm the alibi before they even made it back to the office. She even sent them photos taken by the parent who’d hired Molly for the event.
“Yes,” Max said, looking at his smartphone. “Even with her clown face on, you can tell it’s her.”
“Still,” Professor Sherwood said, “the photos are kind of weird.”
“What?” Rutherford asked. “What is it? Do you think they could be faked?” He was unable to look at the photos because he was driving the van.
“No, the photos seem genuine,” Max said. “But there is something off-putting about her face.”
“It’s that she’s smiling,” Sloan said. “She’s got a big toothy grin in every photo, but she’s wearing sad clown makeup.”
“Yes,” Professor Sherwood said. “It’s incongruous.”
Sloan said, “It warps her painted-on frown into the shape of a bandito moustache.”
“And the smile makes the sad-looking eyebrow paint seem more worried,” Max added.
Sloan shook her helmet. “She has the ability to make clown makeup even more disturbing. That’s a real accomplishment. That should be her doctoral thesis.”
“So where does that leave us?” Sherwood asked.
Sloan said, “I still like Olivia Arledge.”
Max nodded, and Rutherford said, “Same here.”
Sherwood said, “And by like, you all mean you think she’s the murderer.”
Sloan said, “She has a clear motive, and her alibi doesn’t rule out the idea that she’s involved, just that she did the bludgeoning herself.”
“I’m not arguing with any of that,” Sherwood said. “I’m just saying that you people’s definition of the word like seems a bit askew.”
Rutherford drove the van into the parking garage and up the ramp. Negotiating the inside of the garage hadn’t been fun in a car. In the van, it was far worse. Every beam threatened to scrape the van’s roof. Every bumper threatened to crease the van’s side. At every landing he was sure the van would grind its undercarriage. When the false wall opened, he nosed the van into the office’s attached garage with all the relief of a test pilot who’d been forced to glide to a landing after engine trouble.
“You realize that now you’re going to have to back out tomorrow,” Sloan said.
“Yes,” Rutherford said, “but that’s tomorrow. The point is that I didn’t have to back in tonight.”
They piled out of the van and went into the office. Terri and Albert were already at the conference table, ready to discuss the day’s progress while the field team put away their stuff and prepared to go home for the evening.
Terri smiled and asked, “So, Rutherford, how was your first full day on the job?”
“It was interesting. I think it went well.”
“You’re right,” Terri said. “It went very well. Saved by Bees has been all over social media this afternoon. Mr. Capp wants you to know that he’s very pleased.”
“That’s, uh, that’s great,” Rutherford said, “but I was talking about the progress we made on the case.”
Terri said, “I know, but that’s Sloan’s job, not yours. It’s good that you’re anxious to help, but your main job is to get attention and drive the van, and you got a lot of attention today. How was the van?”
“Terrifying.”
“Well, if you’re going to crash it, try to do it somewhere it’ll be caught on video. Albert, do you think you could rig one of your quadcopters to follow the van at all times?”
“No,” Albert said. “The battery life wouldn’t allow it. I could put in a dash cam, no problem.”
Terri said, “That’ll do.”
Rutherford said, “Oh, Albert, while you’re working on that, I should probably give you these.” He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out his broken phone and the e-cigar he’d been given only that morning. He held the cigar with the tips of two fingers as if it were a dead rodent.
“What exactly happened to it?” Albert asked.
Rutherford shrugged. “It fell out of my mouth while I was chasing Derek Sambucci, and I think one of us may have kicked it.”
“We know it landed in a puddle,” Max added.
“Next to a garbage can,” Sloan said.
Max nodded. “Yes, it was next to a garbage can, but I’m not sure that the puddle was water.”
Sherwood moaned. “I wish you’d told me before I set my wand to download the day’s chem, GPS, and time-stamp data! I could have given the bees a sniff of it.”
Albert furrowed his brow and peered at the scraped and soiled cigar, but he didn’t take it just yet. “Really Rutherford, you’ve only had it a day. Must you destroy every piece of equipment you’re issued?”
“I’m sorry, Albert. I really didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Albert looked chagrined for a moment, then said, “Oh, it’s okay Rutherford. Don’t worry about it. It’s the cheapest piece of equipment we gave you, and it probably only needs to be cleaned.”
“Oh. Good,” Rutherford said, confused for the second time that day by the sudden shift in Albert’s attitude. “Are, um, are you going to take it from me then?”
Still studying the e-cigar, which hung suspended from Rutherford’s fingertips, Albert took the broken phone. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Just let me go get some rubber gloves.” He got up and disappeared into his lab.
“Professor Sherwood, do you have a moment?” Terri asked as Sherwood strode past, toward the garage.
“I need to transfer the van hive upstairs so the bees can get out and stretch their wings. They’ve been cooped up most of the day.”
“I think they can wait a moment. I have the lab report on the hammer. Wouldn’t you like to be here when I tell everyone what it says?”
Sherwood nodded and smiled, but continued toward the garage, saying, “Thanks, but don’t wait for me. The bees are my priority. Besides, I know what the lab report will say.” He shut the garage door behind him as he left.
“What did the lab find?” Sloan asked.
“Exactly what he said it would. No trace of blood. They agree that the handle looks as if it was deliberately wiped down, but they’ve ruled out the hammer as the murder weapon.”
The door to the garage swung open. Sherwood came in carrying a Plexiglas box festooned with disconnected hoses and big, beefy hinges. The box was also full of live bees. The team regarded him with a mix of respect, resentment, and fear.
“I take your silent stares to mean that the crime lab agreed with my bees. Excellent. I think we can all agree that after ruling out an irrelevant piece of evidence yesterday and saving Rutherford from a public beating today, they’ve earned their evening’s rest.” Sherwood hummed “Flight of the Bumblebees” as he ascended the stairs to the roof deck.
The rest of the team chose to move on with business.
“While you all were driving back here, I took the liberty of setting up another interview with Olivia Arledge so you can ask her about her husband and the clown,” Terri said. “She’s expecting you tomorrow morning at ten. She thinks you have some follow-up questions about her husband’s background.”
“Good,” Sloan said.
Terri said, “I know I don’t have to tell you, Sloan, but Rutherford, I’ll remind you to be careful of how you approach her. If she’s not involved, we don’t want to offend the victim’s widow, and if she is, we want her to think she’s getting away with it.”
Rutherford nodded and said, “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Albert returned from his office wearing surgical gloves. He handed Rutherford a fresh smartphone and took the soiled e-cigar, which he carried back into his workshop.
“Besides,” Rutherford said once this transaction was complete, “Max will do most of the talking anyway. I just have to drive there, which is enough to worry about.”
“I’m sure it is,” Terri agreed. “But you’ll have had more practice by then.”
Rutherford said, “Yeah. Wait, what?”
Terri said, “You’ve still got to drive home tonight and back in tomorrow.”
“No,” Rutherford said, “I’m taking my Miata home.”
Rutherford was so focused on establishing the fate of his Miata that he didn’t notice when everyone who wasn’t him or Terri walked away from the conversation with feigned nonchalance and great speed. Like anyone who has ever worked in an office environment, they had mastered the skill of staying close enough to an argument to hear it while getting far enough away not to be part of it.
Terri shook her head, looking genuinely sorry. “Rutherford, we talked about this. You don’t have a Miata anymore. You agreed to sell it to Mr. Capp for market value plus ten percent.”
“Yeah, so you say, but I haven’t had time to look it up in the contract.”
“Well, sadly for you, Mr. Capp’s other employees are a bit more proactive. They came and took the Miata just after lunch.”
“What? They can’t do that! Not yet! I haven’t signed it over! No money has changed hands.”
Terri held up her hands in an attempt to get Rutherford to calm down. “Yes,” she said, “That’s true. They did take a liberty by hauling the car away, and you’re right to be upset. But let’s calm down and be honest with ourselves. You are going to sign the car over, and we both know it. Even if you were of a mind to cause a fuss about this, you don’t want to face the law firm Mr. Capp keeps on retainer. You’d be lucky to get out of it without ending up owing him money. It’s just a car, and you’re being paid generously for it. I have the title in my office, along with all of your other stuff from the trunk and the glove box. As soon as you sign it, I’ll start the paperwork on your payment.”
“How long will it take to get my money?” Rutherford asked, slowly shuffling to Terri’s office.
“A couple of weeks.”
“Great, that part they take their time on.”
“It will be paid by direct deposit, so there’s that.”
“Yeah, but suddenly I feel a lot less comfortable about Capp having my bank information.”
Before he walked into Terri’s office, Rutherford looked out across the main room. Albert was in his workshop, hopefully boiling the cigar in Lysol. Sherwood was still up on the roof deck. Sloan was seated, hands resting on her cane in front of her. Her head was bobbing slightly, as if she was talking. Max was at his desk, doing some indistinct busywork Rutherford couldn’t make out, but his head was nodding, and he was saying, “Yes. Absolutely. I agree.” Then Max looked up sharply and made eye contact with Rutherford from across the room. After a moment, the older man smiled and nodded. Rutherford returned the gesture uncertainly, and went into the office.
