Survival Of The Fittest

34

She thanked us for listening, put her lab coat on, and left the restaurant.

“Woman scorned,” said Milo. “And Ponsico had mood problems, even his parents didn't doubt the suicide. Without DVLL and that Meta article you found, I wouldn't spend another second on it.”

“Some pattern we've got,” I said. “Retarded kids and a genius with no sympathy for the genetically impaired. The only link I can see to our murders is Ponsico learned something at Meta that made him a threat. The killer chitchatting too explicitly about his plans, and Ponsico's contempt for the unfortunate didn't extend to homicide.”

“Dr. Sally's convinced this Zena was the killer but Zena's tiny and that part about her surprising Ponsico from behind is nonsense. The wound would have hurt but a big guy like that could have fought her off easily. So if he was murdered it was by someone strong. Just like our kids.”

“What about Zena and someone else?”

“A killing team… why not, we're entertaining all kinds of fantasies, but the only strike against this girl is the other girl hates her guts. Somewhere down the line, though, she may turn out useful.”

“As an entrÉe to Meta.”

He nodded. “Meantime, let's see what our Israeli friend has to offer.”

In the daylight, Sharavi's house was shabby. When he came to the door he was close-shaved and neatly dressed. Cup of tea in his hand. Mint sprig floating on top. I became aware of my own stubbled face.

He looked out at the street and let us in. The tea gave off steam.

“May I offer you some?”

Milo said, “No, thanks. Hope your computer's working.”

We walked to the back room. The PC was on, a screen-saving pink hexagon dancing on the black screen. Sharavi had arranged two folding chairs in the middle of the carpet. The velvet bag for his prayer equipment was gone.

Milo showed him the article about Farley Sanger's Meta editorial and told him about Malcolm Ponsico.

He pulled up to the workstation and began punching keys, using a one-handed hunt-and-peck that was faster than I would have believed.

The bad hand rested on his lap, an inert hunk of flesh.

I watched data bank after data bank flash and disappear.

After a while, he said, “If this group has done something criminal, none of the major agencies knows about it. I'll check academic bases.”

The keyword Meta brought up hundreds of irrelevant topics from university data stations: meta-analysis in philosophy, scores of chemical compounds, references to metabolism, metallurgy, metamorphosis.

When we'd waded through all of it, he said, “Let's try the Internet. It's become an international trash can, but who knows.”

“Let's try the phone first,” said Milo. “New York Information for Meta.”

Sharavi smiled. “Good point.” He dialed 212 Information, waited, hung up. “No listing.”

“Maybe,” I said, “the publicity about Sanger's article drove them out of business.”

“Could be,” said Sharavi. “Though hate's a hot commodity. It could also drum up more business. Shall I try the Internet, now?”

Using a coded password, he hooked into an on-line network I'd never heard of. No cute graphics or chat lines, just stark black letters on white screen.

Several seconds passed and he sat there without moving or blinking.

WELCOME R. VAN RIJN flashed.

Rembrandt's surname. Had the Israeli police assigned him the moniker or did he fancy himself an artist?

A brown hand flew nimbly over the keyboard and within seconds he was web-crawling.

Another flood of unrelated topics: an entomologist in Paris doing research on a larva called metacercaria, a holistic healer in Oakland promising to cure aches of the metacarpal bones.

Twenty minutes later, he stopped.

“Suggestions?”

“Try Mensa,” said Milo. “Meta's an imitator, meaning there's probably some hostility between the groups. Maybe some Mensa faithful wants to express feelings.”

Sharavi swiveled around, attacking the keyboard.

“Plenty on Mensa,” he said.

We watched him scroll slowly through page after page. Times and places for Mensa meetings around the world, Mensa-related topics.

A similar organization in London calling itself Limey Scumdogs discussing its favorite things. Members with nicknames- the Sharp Kidd, Sugar Baby, Buffalo Bob- listing “bad puns,” “strong coffee and dialectics,” “debates from hell,” “cuddles and housebroken Afghan hounds.” And so on.

Some of the notations were in foreign languages and Sharavi seemed to be reading them.

“What was that?” said Milo, pointing, as Sharavi skipped one.

“Dublin Mensa. Probably Gaelic.”

More scrolling.

A real-estate broker in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, advertising his services and listing Mensa membership as a job qualification.

Same for a personnel manager in Chicago, a dental hygienist in Orlando, Florida, an engineer in Tokyo, dozens more.

Unemployment hadn't spared the top of the bell curve.

Next came an IQ MEASUREMENT section. Several writers, all men, displaying questions from intelligence scales- quickie tests, the type featured in know-your-IQ-paperbacks. Most selections were followed by variations of the assertion that “this is an extremely rigorous set of questions constructed to show a stratospherically high level of intelligence.”

The Punchline:

ROBERT'S IQ.

HORACE'S IQ.

KEITH'S IQ.

CHARLES'S IQ…

Some pages had accompanying artwork- Einstein's face was a favorite.

All with CLICK HERE TO SEE MY SCORE boxes.

Sharavi's clicks brought up graphs with little stars for Robert and Horace and Keith and Charles and…

All in the 170-plus range.

“Such smart people,” said Sharavi. “So much free time.”

“Weenie-land,” said Milo. “Send 'em applications to the Get a Life Club.”

Sharavi moved through several more pages with no success.

“The information age,” said Milo. “You spend lots of time doing this?”

“Less and less,” said Sharavi, hand continuing to move. “When the Internet began it was more valuable as an investigative tool. Professors talking to professors, scientific data, agencies communicating. Now, there's too much to wade through for the little you get. It seems to have become one big chat-room for lonely people.”

He turned and looked at me. “I suppose that serves a purpose, Doctor.”

“Keep going,” said Milo.

After two more hours of viewing, we had nothing.

“I assume you've already looked up DVLL,” I told Sharavi.

“That and all the hate groups who run bulletin boards. No progress, I'm afraid.”

“What about a different keyword,” I said. “Galton, sterilization, eugenics, euthanasia.”

He typed.

Sterilization brought up more references to food-safety than castration and most of the discussions of eugenics were glorified personal ads: “I hereby splay my DNA out on the platter of public scrutiny. Women desiring choice nucleic protein are cordially invited to apply.”

Sharavi printed it all out, anyway, page after page landing in the bin silently. From time to time Milo got up, removed sheets, scanned them, put them back.

At five-thirty, he said, “Enough. They obviously keep a low profile.”

“We could act rather than just react,” said Sharavi. “E-mailing something about Meta into some of the data banks and see what turns up.”

“Can you be sure your identity's totally protected?” said Milo.

“No. I change passwords and addresses regularly but you can never be sure.”

“Then, no, not yet. I don't want to alert anyone.”

“I already did that with my call to Mensa,” I said, describing the message I'd left.

Milo said, “No big deal,” but I could tell he was bothered and I felt like an amateur.

He turned to Sharavi. “Any other insights?”

“Ponsico's suicide. Despite the lack of evidence, it does sound irregular. Using poison, for starters. Poisoners tend to be women, right?”

“Ponsico was a scientist.”

“True,” said Sharavi. “Which leads me to another issue: As a scientist he'd know what to expect. Potassium chloride causes a quick death, but it's far from painless- sudden cardiac arrhythmia, a severe heart attack. When you execute criminals with it, you add sodium pentothal for pre-sedation and pancurium bromide to stop breathing. Couldn't Ponsico have chosen an easier death for himself?”

“Maybe he was punishing himself,” said Milo. “Thought he deserved cruel and unusual.”

“Guilt?” I said, thinking again of Nolan. “Over what?”

“Maybe he'd played a part in something really nasty. Our killings or something else. Or maybe he was just a guy with mood swings who ended up profoundly depressed in the lab and just happened to have access to poison. And even if he did make things rougher on himself than he had to, it was still relatively fast and clean. Helluva lot better than some of the stuff I've seen people do to themselves. Right, Superintendent?”

“Daniel,” said Sharavi. “Yes, that's true. Self-hatred can be an amazing thing. But… I guess I'd like to learn more about this young man.”

“I'll call his parents,” said Milo. “The professors in Princeton. Maybe some of his other coworkers at PlasmoDerm.”

“It's a biomedical company?”

“Skin research. Ponsico was working on improving the success of skin grafts. Why, you see some sort of work connection?”

“No,” said Sharavi. “Though I suppose if there was a dissatisfied customer- someone whose graft didn't take… but no, they would have poisoned the surgeon, not the researcher… no, I have no ideas.”

He drank tea and put the cup down. “I have good sources in New York. If Meta does exist, they'll be able to find out. We could also tap Zena Lambert's line-”

“Forget it. We've got no grounds for any kind of warrant, let alone a tap. On the off chance she's connected to anything, I don't want to screw up the evidentiary chain.”

“Good point.”

“Don't even think about it,” said Milo.

“Of course,” said Sharavi.

“I mean it.”

“I realize that.”

“The bookstore Zena works in,” I said. “Spasm. An offbeat name so maybe it's a meeting place for people with offbeat ideas. There could be a bulletin board, maybe with a posting by Meta.”

“No phone listing but they announce meetings at a store?” said Milo.

“An out-of-the-way store that attracts the target audience. Want me to drop in and look around?”

He rubbed his face. “Let me think about it- I want to get the most out of anything we do.”

Sharavi got up and stretched, raising both arms above his head, the bad hand dangling. “I'm getting more tea- are you sure you wouldn't like some? The mint's fresh. I found a big patch growing out in back.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

When he was gone, Milo scowled at the computer. “Garbage in, garbage out… So what's with the Arafat look, Alex- scratch that in view of present company- the porcupine look?”

“I rushed over to the library, didn't take the time to shave.”

“That's half a day's worth?”

I nodded.

“Taking those testosterone pills, again?”

I flexed a bicep and grunted and he gave a tired smile.

Sharavi came back with the tea. Scalding, slightly sweet, the mint flavor gliding above the heat.

As I sipped, I used one of the phones to call my service.

“Hi, Doctor, there's just one. A Loren Bukovsky, from… looks like Mensa. Though it says here he asked for Al. The girl- a new one- tried to tell him different but he insisted you were Al. You do get some strange ones, Dr. Delaware, but that's your business, right?”

“Right. What did Mr. Bukovsky have to say?”

“Let's see- sorry, this new one has terrible penmanship… it looks like he was… no, he has nothing to do with Mela, or Meta… something like that… anyway, he wants nothing to do with Mela or whatever… um, but if you have the… sorry, Doctor, this isn't very polite.”

“What does it say, Joyce?”

“If you have the poor taste to want to… looks like fraternatize with… idiots… go to a place called… looks like Spastic… but he doesn't leave an address… very strange, even for you, Dr. Delaware.”

“That's all of it?”

“He also said don't call back, he's not interested in you. How rude, huh?”

“Very,” I said. “But maybe he's got his reasons.”

“Strong opinions,” said Milo, writing down Bukovsky's name.

“And now it's out that we're looking into Meta. Sorry.”

“But at least we know the bookstore's worth looking into.” He turned to Sharavi. “How about using some of that illegal DMV access on Mr. Bukovsky and Ms. Lambert?”

Sharavi put his mug down and faced the computer.

Moments later:

“Loren A. Bukovsky, an address on Corinth Avenue, Los Angeles, 90064.”

“West Los Angeles,” said Milo. “Minutes from the station. Might as well pay him a visit.”

“When should I visit Spasm?” I said.

“Let me check out Bukovsky first.”

Sharavi said, “If Bukovsky has something interesting to say, perhaps Dr. Delaware can do more than just drop in at Spasm.”

“Such as?”

“If Meta still holds meetings, he could try to attend. Who better than a Ph.D.? He could pose as someone interested in-”

“Forget it,” said Milo.

Sharavi blinked but didn't move, otherwise. “All right.”

“And don't think about going yourself, Superintendent.”

Sharavi smiled. “Me? I lack the qualifications.”

“The same goes for any of your people.”

“My people?”

“Put it out of your mind. No undercover operations that I don't know about.”

“All right.”

“All right? Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that.”

Saying it in a near-whisper but for the first time, the Israeli was showing emotion. The faintest tightening around the golden eyes, a twitch along the jawline.

“I'm doing my best to cooperate,” he said softly.

“I'm a skeptic and a pessimist,” said Milo. “When things go too smoothly it worries me.”

Sharavi's jaw relaxed and he brought up a smile- mechanically, as if evoking data from the computer.

“Shall I make your life difficult, then, Milo?”

“Why break a trend?”

Sharavi shook his head. “I'm going to eat.”

He left the room again and Milo thumbed absently through the printout in the bin. “I'll try to interview Bukovsky today. And call Ponsico's parents. I just hope this whole Ponsico thing hasn't gotten us too far afield.”

He got up and paced. The house was small and I could hear Sharavi working in the kitchen.

“If I visit the bookstore,” I said, “I could sound out the Lambert woman, see if I can get her to talk about Meta.”

“Alex-”

“In an unobtrusive way. Even if the killer's a Meta member, that doesn't make the whole group a homicidal cabal. And if I did get into a meeting and was able to look them all over-”

“Delete the thought, Alex.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because Sharavi suggested it?”

He whipped around, glaring. “Ten points off for a very bad guess.”

“Hey,” I said, “I'm brutally frank 'cause I care.”

He started to retort, dropped his shoulders, laughed. “Look at this. I'm trying to protect you and you're dissing me. You think it's a smart idea hobnobbing with a group of genetic snobs, one of whom could be a goddamn serial killer?”

“I don't think attending one meeting is going to put me in danger.”

He didn't answer.

“Also,” I said, “I think Sharavi's involvement still bothers you to the point where you run the risk of throwing the baby out.”

He rubbed his face hard and fast. “This is great. Him on one side and you on the other… for all I know he's got this goddamn room bugged.”

“Okay, I'll shut up. Sorry.”

He grimaced. Laughed again. Circled the room.

“What the hell am I doing here- yeah, yeah, you're right, having to deal with him does piss me off. I don't like… too many layers.” He shoved his arms in front of him, breaststroking air. “Like suffocating under a dozen blankets.”

“Sure,” I said. “But unless some progress is made on the killings, you run the risk of a dozen more blankets. As in task force.”

“What is this, tough love?”

“It's for your own good, sonny boy.”

“Dr. Castor Oil- you really want to play secret agent, don't you? Couple of days with Mr. Mossad and you're itching for code names and fountain-pen cameras.”

“That's me,” I said. “Agent Double-O-Shrink. License to interpret.”

Sharavi returned with a sandwich on a cheap plastic plate. Tuna and lettuce on egg bread. Very little tuna.

He put the plate down next to the phones. His face said he had no appetite.

“I have two police scanners. The one in the kitchen was on. A call just went out on one of your tactical bands. Central Division Homicide detectives calling in a dead body in an alley. A 187 cutting. It's probably unrelated, but next to the body was a white cane. I thought you should know.”

Picking up the sandwich, he took a small, decisive bite.