Fred Nunzio introduces his companion as Rick Chrebet, a city detective. They make an odd couple. Nunzio is a short, fleshy man, perky and confident, with smooth black hair combed straight back. The scrawny Chrebet is thin of both hair and affect: his manner is sufficiently distant that I catch myself wanting to confess to something just to gain his interest for a minute or two. His teeth are bright and even, his lips pale, his jaw pugnacious. His fair eyes are deep-set and wary. Dizzy with deja vu, I lead them into the sunny living room, which we never use except for company. Across the hall, Bentley happily zaps away, oblivious to his father’s sudden distress, and uninterested in the visitors. He is never interested in strangers, having perhaps inherited from me a tendency toward introspection.
“We won’t need much of your time,” says Nunzio, sleepy-eyed and nearly apologetic. “We wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”
I mumble something appropriate, waiting for the ax to fall. Has something happened to Kimmer? Then why would the FBI be here? Is there news from Washington? Then why would a city cop be here?
“My colleague here wanted to talk to you about something,” Nunzio continues, “and I kind of came along for the ride.”
Detective Chrebet, meanwhile, has opened his slim briefcase on the coffee table and is leafing through the contents. He withdraws a glossy color photograph and slides it across to me: heavyset white man with an unruly shock of brown facial hair, staring at the camera, a plaque with a bunch of numbers held across his chest. A mug shot. I shudder with memory.
“Do you recognize the person depicted in the photograph?” the detective asks in his reedy, expressionless voice, the question phrased as carefully as an instruction book.
“Yes.” I look hard at Nunzio but address myself to Chrebet. “You know I do.”
Without missing a beat, he slips me another shot, a black-and-white, and this time I barely need a glance and I do not wait for the question. “Yes, I recognize him, too. These are the two men who assaulted me in the middle of the campus a few weeks ago.”
Nunzio smiles slightly, but Chrebet’s pale face is stone. “Are you absolutely certain?”
I dutifully study the pictures again, just in case they have changed over the last few seconds. “Yes, I am absolutely certain. I got a very good look at them both.” I point to the photos. “Does this mean you found them? They’re under arrest?”
The detective answers my question with a question. “Had you ever seen these men before the night they attacked you?”
“No. I never saw them before. I told the police that already.”
Before Chrebet can ask another question, Nunzio speaks up. “Professor Garland, is there anything you want to share with me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Anything related to… well, the research you’ve been involved in?” I notice his careful euphemism and wonder if he is trying to hide something from Chrebet or if he thinks I am. “Anything you would prefer to discuss privately?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I already asked you about the possibility that Freeman Bishop.. .”
“We’ve looked into that.” He speaks quickly, and again I have the sense he does not want the detective to understand. “Your source was wrong. There’s nothing to worry about.” Reassuring me when I have not asked. I am growing more puzzled by the minute.
Nunzio subsides. The ball is back in Chrebet’s court. He resumes his interrogation as though the federal agent never opened his mouth. “Have you seen either of these men since the time of the attack?”
As my worry grows, my legal skills return: “Not that I can recall.”
“Do you know whether anyone else has seen them?”
“No.” I have waited long enough, so I throw in my own question again. “Now, tell me, please. Do you know who they are?”
“Small-timers,” Nunzio puts in. “Hoods. Hired help. They’re nobody.”
“So are they under arrest? You’ve found them? Is that why you’re here?” Because I am thinking that if I can find out who hired them I will be halfway home. “Do you know who they worked for?”
Chrebet again, pedantically: “No, Professor, we do not know whom they worked for. They are not under arrest. And, yes, we’ve found them. Or, rather, they were found.”
“What are you telling me? Are they dead?”
He is relentless, like a machine. “A troop of Boy Scouts out hiking in Henley State Park found them over the weekend. They were lying in the bushes, bound and gagged. Alive, but just barely.”
“They’re not talking,” Nunzio slips in, perhaps reading my mind. “As a matter of fact, they’re scared shitless. I would be, too.” An easy, mocking smile. “Somebody seems to have cut off all their fingers.”