A Cold Heart

“Because his family’s got money.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s always about money, isn’t it? Six years ago, I was brought to Charter College to create a first-rate department of communications. Promises were made to me. I had several other offers- larger schools, better facilities. But all were in other cities, and I’d just met Vernon and his practice was established here. I chose romance over practicality.” Small smile. “The right choice, but… there are consequences to any decision.”

“Charter broke its promise,” I said.

“Broken promises are a given in the academic world. The issue is the proportion of truth to nonsense. Don’t get me wrong. For the most part, I’m not miserable. Charter’s a good school. For what it is.”

“Which is…”

“A small place. A very small place. That affords one the opportunity to interact with students closely, which was initially appealing and still is. All in all, the kids are a nice bunch. After five years at Berkeley, all the left-wing nonsense, Charter seemed positively quaint. But sometimes it’s limiting.”

“Which promises were broken?” I said.

She ticked her finger. “I was pledged a five-person faculty and got three; my budget was cut by thirty percent because several pledges dried up- the recession was in full force back then, donors’ stock portfolios had tumbled, et cetera. My pla

“Which promises did they keep?”

“I got a nice desk.” She smiled. “I could’ve walked. Vernon’s practice is more than adequate in terms of financial support. But I didn’t go to school for twenty-three years in order to play golf and have my nails done. So I resolved to make the best of the situation and set about enjoying the one thing they hadn’t reneged on: ‘wide latitude’ in hiring faculty. I was fortunate to snag Susan Santorini because she, too, wanted to remain in Southern California, her partner’s a film agent. Then I set about finding the third member of our tight little group and was informed by the dean that a strong candidate had come up and that I was highly advised to look favorably upon his application.”

She touched a pearl earring. “Gordon Shull is a joke. However, his stepfather is one of our wealthiest alumni. Gordon’s an alumnus, as well.”

“A joke in terms of scholarship?” I said.

“A joke, period. When his application came across my desk and I noted that he’d graduated from Charter, I got hold of his undergrad transcripts.”

“Suspicious?”

She smiled. “I was rather displeased to be advised. When I read the transcript, my displeasure turned to wrath. To say Gordon had been an undistinguished student would have been too kind. He was on academic probation several semesters, put together a C-minus average by taking Mickey Mouse courses, took five years to graduate. Somehow along the line, he managed to get himself a master’s.” Her lips curled. “I got my doctorate at Berkeley, did a postdoc at London University, and another at Columbia. Susan Santorini’s doctorate is from Columbia, she taught in Florence, Italy, and at Cornell before I snagged her. The way the job market for academics is ru

“Which helps the budget,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Every year the department receives a check from The Trueblood Endowment- the stepfather’s foundation. Just enough to keep us… motivated.”

“Academic stranglehold,” said Milo.

“Very well put, Detective. And, truth be told, your visit tonight may very well have crystallized things for me. If Gordon’s transgressions have stretched beyond my wildest imagination, I may finally have to make some serious life choices. But before I tell you more, I need one thing: You must keep me informed, provide me enough lead time so I can take my leave well before the storm and thus avoid embroiling myself in criminal-legal matters.”

“You’re resigning, ma’am?”

“Why not, if the parachute’s sufficiently golden?” said Martin. “Vernon’s been talking about cutting back, the two of us have been itching to do more traveling. Perhaps this is providence. So if you want to know more about Gordon’s character flaws, you must keep me in the loop.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo. “What problems have you had with Shull?”

“Pilferage, sloppy expense accounts, spotty attendance as a teacher, shoddy grading,” said Martin. “His lectures- when he chooses to show up- are execrable. Low-level discourses on pop culture with cretinous reading lists. Everything centers on Gordon’s insight of the moment, and Gordon’s attention span is severely attenuated.”

“A dilettante,” I said. Shull had applied the term to Kevin Drummond.

“He’d have to work at being a dilettante,” said Martin. “Gordon is everything I despise about what passes for scholarship in contemporary academia. He fancies himself an avatar of pop culture. Oracle on the mount passing judgment on the creative world. No doubt because he sees himself as an artist but has failed miserably.”

Milo sat up. “How so?”

“Gordon fancies himself quite the Renaissance man. He paints horrid blotchy canvases- garden scenes purporting to be Impressionistic but at a level of competence most middle school children could surpass. Shortly after he came on, he brought several canvases to me, asked for a one-man show sponsored by the department.” She snorted. “I put him off and he went to the dean. Even Gordon’s co

“Renaissance man,” said Milo. “What else?”

“He plays drums and guitar very poorly. I know that because he’s always talking about gigging or riffing, whatever. Last year he volunteered to play at a party Vernon and I threw for the honor students. This time, I was foolish enough to agree.” Her eyes rolled. “As if all that self-delusion wasn’t enough, he also claims to be working on a novel- some magnum opus in progress that he’s been touting since I’ve known him. I’ve never seen a page of manuscript.”

“Big talk, no walk,” said Milo.

“A real California guy,” said Martin. “Without family money, he’d be waiting tables and lying about his next big audition.”

“You said his attendance was spotty,” said Milo.

“He’s always off on some jaunt, financed by his stepfather.”

“What kind of jaunts?”

“Alleged research trips, symposia, conventions. In addition to his other pretensions, he sees himself as an adventurer, has been to Asia, Europe, you name it. It’s all part of that macho thing he has going on- plaid shirts with ties, hiking boots, the Arafat beard. He always claims to be working up some profound paper, but, again, he’s never produced.” She jabbed a finger. “In a sense, the world’s fortunate he never follows through. Because Gordon’s a horrid writer. Incoherent, puffed up, pompous.”

“Faithful Scrivener,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “You know about that?”

“Know about what?”

“Gordon likes to refer to himself in third person. Graces himself with a slew of obnoxious nicknames. The Gordster, The Intrepid Mr. Shull, Faithful Scrivener.” She bared her teeth. “He’s always been a joke. Unfortunately, he’s my personal sick joke. And now you’re telling me he killed someone… and our offices are footsteps away… that is unsettling. Am I in danger?”

“Not that I see, Professor,” said Milo.

“Who has he killed?”

“Artistic individuals.”

Martin’s eyes saucered. “More than one?”

“I’m afraid so, Professor.”

She sighed. “I’m definitely going to take some time off.”

“What can you tell us about Kevin Drummond?” said Milo.

“What I told Professor Delaware was true: I have no specific memory of the boy. After the visit, I took a closer look at his transcripts. Mediocre student, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”