Indiana Pulcinella

FRIDAY, JANUARY 31
chapter 12

Institute Backs Out of Defence for Accused Abductors

Orson Nelson, president of the Canadian Celestial Institute, says his organization is no longer able to defend Efram Milton, Alison Milton, and Lyle Pratt against charges of attempted child abduction.

In explaining this change of position on Thursday, Nelson said, “I have asked the RCMP to initiate a criminal investigation into the theft of money from the CCI defence fund.”

Nelson spoke from his home in Paradise, Alberta. Paradise is the polygamist community to which the three accused belong.

The CCI President was not specific about the amount of money missing but says it is “significant.”

“What’s up with you today?” Lori pointed at Lane’s clothing. He wore a thick blue cotton shirt with a black T-shirt underneath, and blue jeans. “I almost didn’t recognize you.” She pointed at her tan leather boots reaching almost to her knees. “You need a pair of these if you want to fit in at the U of C.”

“I don’t think I’m fooling anyone when I pretend to be a student. Still, I need to keep an eye on Professor Pierce.” Lane glanced to his left at his red backpack.

“You’re taking a long, hard look at the him.”

He nodded. “I have to turn off the ringer on my phone while I’m in class. Would you text me if Keely or Nigel wants to get in touch?”

Lori reached out, putting her hand on his elbow. “Be careful with Cori and her professor. Watching Cori operate made the hair on the back of my neck start doing a tango. If you’re right about them, they’ll be like that other guy.”

“Moreau?” Lane reached for his coat.

“That’s the one. Charming. Lethal. Good at fooling almost everyone.”

“I try not to make any assumptions or reach conclusions early on. Still, I think you’re correct. Indications are pointing that way.” He leaned over to pick up the backpack.

“So you trust my gut?”

“Sometimes my gut is exactly what gets me looking at a suspect. The feeling that something isn’t quite right. The feeling you need to keep your guard up, that you can’t turn your back on a person.” Lane hooked the backpack over his shoulder. “How do I look?”

Lori reached out, adjusting his collar. “Have a good day at school.”

Lane laughed out loud.

“Why isn’t Nigel doing this job? He’s much more likely to pass as a student than you.”

“He’s tracking down passports. And, at least for the time being, I’d like to keep him away from these two.”

“Bad karma?”

Lane leaned his head right, then left. “Something like that. I think Andrew Pierce might remind Nigel of his father and cloud his judgement.”

“He’s having a rough go with this one.”

She’s noticed it, too. “From the very first day we went to the scene.”

Lori nodded. “Scars.”

“What’s that?”

“Just like you and me. He’s got scars.”

Lane sat in the back row of the main-floor lecture theatre at the University of Calgary’s education building. Thankfully, the massive man-spreading football player liked to sit in the same place in the second from last row. Lane crouched behind him. He sipped from the coffee he’d bought at the kiosk in the foyer, taking notes with his right hand, glancing at the iPad for any incoming messages.

“Street smarts. There’s a difference between street smarts and the kind of intelligence measured by standardized tests.”

Lane looked at Pierce, who stood behind the lectern. He wore a black shirt, black jeans, and a pair of black cowboy boots. The same pair of young women sat below Lane and at eye level with Pierce. Lane noted Pierce still looked their way when he talked. “One of the guys I went to high school with was of below-average IQ. He’s a millionaire today, because he has street smarts.”

Lane wrote IQ in his notebook, circling it.

“Of course, standardized tests measure higher-level thought processes and are a powerful tool for the assessment of student abilities.”

Lane heard absolute certainty in the professor’s voice. It’s a weakness. He believes he is smarter than anyone here.

There was a sigh from the girls down front when the man with the thinning-on-top black hair, who’d asked a question the other day, raised his hand.

Pierce turned his back on the man. “Standardized tests are meticulously researched and continuously refined.”

Balding man spoke. “They are called street smarts, after all. And why, if standardized tests are meticulously researched, do they need to be refined?”

The two girls near the front turned, shaking their heads at the man who asked the question.

Lane looked at the man, who blushed as he spotted their reaction. He had an old-style winter jacket tucked in behind him and, as he leaned back, a feather puffed up out of the tired fabric.

Pierce turned toward the man. Lane saw the man inhale.

The woman beside Lane shook her head. It was the same woman with long black hair who had sat near Lane the day before. Again she had set her black wool jacket on the chair between them. Today, she wore a blue turtleneck rolled up under her chin.

Pierce said, “There is considerable scientific research supporting the efficacy of standardized tests.”

Bald man said, “There is also considerable research to suggest standardized tests are only accurate indicators of the size of an individual’s house. Have you read the research by Alfie Kohn?”

“Yes, I have.” Pierce’s tone was condescending. His face reddened.

Lane saw heads turning back and forth between Pierce and the man. Balding man said, “Then you must know there’s considerable evidence suggesting conclusions contrary to the point of view you are presenting.”

“And you have a PhD in statistics?” Pierce asked.

“A PhD is required before an individual is allowed to think for himself?”

“That’s exactly what it means!” Pierce pointed at the man.

“Bullshit!” The woman next to Lane was standing, pointing at Pierce. “The last time I checked, education is intended to open minds rather than close them.”

Pierce looked from the man to the woman. The surprise on his face transformed into rage. He pointed at the man and then the woman. “The pair of you are colluding! I can see it. You don’t know who you’re dealing with! What you’re up against!”

“Is that a threat?” The woman put her fists on her hips.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.” Pierce folded up his materials, turned right, walked across the stage, and kicked the side door open. It bounced off the wall, slamming him into the doorframe on the rebound.

Lane touched the woman’s elbow, and she turned on him. He held his hands palm up. She looked down at him with her fists at her sides. Lane saw the white of her knuckle bones. He said, “I have a question for you.”

She took a breath. “What?”

“What made you stand up and speak out?”

“You mean you can’t see it?”

Lane waited.

“There’s something wrong with him. He’s the last person who should be teaching us how to be teachers.”

Lane kept his tone neutral. “How do you know?”

“I just know.” She wiped away tears. “I just know.”

“What does this mean?” Christine wore a T-shirt and red flannel pants. She handed Lane a newspaper article as he stepped out of his shoes at the front door.

Lane took the paper in one hand, shook his other hand out of the sleeve of his winter jacket, then switched hands to repeat the process. Christine took his coat. Lane read the article. “The missing money makes me wonder.”

“About what?” Christine leaned against the wall.

Lane moved into the living room, sitting in the easy chair. It felt warm against his back. “About what happened to the money. Do you believe Orson Nelson?”

Christine nodded. “He’s a friend of Milton and Lyle Pratt. The three of them were always meeting about one thing or another. I often heard them talking about lying for the Lord.” She sat down on the couch, holding the article in her left hand.

Lane looked at her.

“You know, lying to protect polygamy, religion, themselves.”

“So, you think Nelson is lying?” Lane felt his cheeks warming up after the forty-minute walk home from the LRT station.

“I don’t know. I’m just worried about Indiana and what my mother is up to.”

Lane leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “I can see two possible scenarios. Nelson is lying to help Alison play the victim. Or something else is going on because money disappeared from the account. The fact that he won’t disclose how much is missing is also telling. Either way, Tommy Pham is quite capable of protecting you and Indiana.”

“How long will my mother be in jail if she’s convicted?”

Lane opened his eyes when he heard the despair in Christine’s voice. This is a no-win situation for you. “I’d expect it could be anywhere from time served to five years. You don’t want her to go to prison?”

Christine shrugged. “I know it’s crazy. She’s my mom. I don’t want her to be in jail. But I don’t want us to be in this prison either.” She looked around the living room. “I’m always afraid when we leave the house. Always worried when someone comes to the door.”

Lane leaned forward. What do I say to her? Your mother is mentally ill? You’ll never be free of her? “How many adults live in this house?”

“Five. Six.” Christine sat back in the couch.

“That’s the number of people who will fight to protect Indiana. Not everyone has a family like that. I like our odds.”

Later that night, while he lay awake and Arthur snored, Lane thought, What’s going on with the CCI’s money? There’s something I’m missing here. He closed his eyes until the image of David Randall with the back of his head blown away made him open them again.