The Web (19 page)

“Demonizing the oppressor?”

“Precisely.”

“Was Joseph Cristobal politically active?”

“On the contrary. A simple man. Illiterate. But fond
of drink. I’m sure that had something to do with it. Today,
your average villager would laugh at the notion of a Tutalo.”

“He was your gardener. Did he sight the Tutalo here?”

He licked his lips and nodded. “He was working on the
eastern walls, tying vines. Working overtime, everyone else had
gone home. It was well after dark. Fatigue was probably a
factor as well.”

“Where did he see the creature?”

“Making its way through the banyans. Waving its arms,
then retreating. He didn’t tell anyone right away. Too
scared, he claimed, but I suspect he’d been drinking and
didn’t want to be thought of as a drunkard or old-fashioned.”

“So he suppressed the vision and began hallucinating at
night?”

“It began as nightmares. He’d wake up screaming, see
the Tutalo in his room.”

“Could the original sighting have taken place as he
slept?” I said. “Could he have dozed off on the job and made
up the vision to cover up?”

“I wondered about that, but of course he denied it. I
also wondered if he’d fallen off his ladder and hurt his
head, but there were no bruises or swellings anywhere on his
body.”

“Was he an alcoholic?”

“He wasn’t a raving drunk but he did like his spirits.”

“Could the visions have been alcohol poisoning?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Bill, exactly how endemic is alcoholism on Aruk?”

He blinked and removed his glasses. “In the past it was
a serious problem. We’ve worked hard at education.”

“Who’s we?”

“Ben and myself, which is why what’s happened tonight is
madness,
Alex! You
must
help him!”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Speak to Dennis. Let him know Ben couldn’t have done
it, that he simply doesn’t fit the profile of a psychopathic
killer.”

“Why would Dennis listen to me?”

“I don’t know that he would, but we must try everything.
Your training and experience will give you credibility.
Dennis respects psychology, majored in it in junior college.”

“What profile don’t you think Ben fits?”

“The FBI’s two forms of lust-killer: he’s neither the
disorganized, low-intellect spree-murderer nor the
calculating, sadistic psychopath.”

The FBI had earned a lot of TV time with
patterns of serial killers obtained from interviews with
psychopaths careless enough to get caught. But psychopaths
lied for the fun of it, and profiles rarely if ever led to
the discovery of a killer, occasionally confirming what
police scut work and luck had already accomplished.
Profiles had been
responsible for some serious fallacies: Serial killers never
murdered across race. Till they did. Women couldn’t be
serial killers. Till they were.

People weren’t computer
chips. People had the uncanny ability to surprise.

But even if I’d had more faith in the orderly nature of
evil, Ben wouldn’t have been easily acquitted.

Right after Lyman Picker’s death, Robin and I had
discussed the hardness of his personality, and I recalled the
cold, impersonal way he’d jabbed needles into the arms of the
schoolchildren.

Family history of alcoholism.

Rough childhood, probably abuse from the “ugly drunk”
father.

A certain rigidity. Tight control.

Outwardly controlled men
sometimes lost it when under the influence of booze or
drugs. A high percentage of serial killers committed their crimes
buoyed by intoxication.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “But I doubt it’ll do any
good.”

“Talk to Ben, too. Try to make some sense of this. I’m
shackled, son.”

“If I’m to succeed with Dennis, I need to be impartial,
not Ben’s advocate.”

He blinked some more. “Yes, that makes sense. Dennis is
rational and honest. If he responds to anything it’ll be
the rational approach.”

“Rational and honest,” I said, “but you don’t want him
dating your daughter.”

It had slipped out like loose change.

He recoiled. Sank heavily into the desk chair. When he
finally spoke, it was in a low, resigned voice:

“So you despise me.”

“No, Bill, but I can’t say I understand you. The longer
I stay here, the more inconsistent things seem.”

He smiled feebly. “Do they?”

“Your love for the island and its people seems so strong.
Yet you
tongue-lash Pam for hanging around Dennis. Not that it’s my
business—you’ve devoted your life to Aruk and I’m just a
visitor.”

He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed
the sweat from his forehead.

“I know that this situation with Ben is terrible for
you,” I said, “but if I’m to stay here I need to know a few
things.”

Looking away, he said, “What else troubles you, son?”

“The fact that Aruk’s so cut off from the outside world.
That more of your energies haven’t been spent opening it up.
You say there’s hope, but you don’t
act
hopeful. I agree
with you that TV’s mostly garbage, but how can the people
ever develop when their access to information is so limited?
They can’t even get mail on a regular basis. It’s solitary
confinement on a cultural level.”

His hands started to shake again and spots of color made
his cheeks shine.

“Forget it,” I said.

“No, no, go on.”

“Do you want to respond to what I just said?”

“The people have
books. There’s a library in the church.”

“When’s the last time new books came in?”

He used a fingernail to scrape something off the desktop.
“What do you suggest?”

“More frequent shipping schedules. The leeward harbor’s
too narrow for big craft but couldn’t the supply boats sail
more often? And if the Navy won’t allow planes to land on
Stanton, why not build an airfield on the west side? If
Amalfi won’t cooperate, use some of your land.”

“And how is all this to be financed?”

“Your personal finances are none of my business, either,
but I’ve heard you’re very wealthy.”

“Who told you that?”

“Creedman.”

His laugh was shrill. “Do you know what Creedman really
does for a living?”

“He’s not a journalist?”

“He’s worked for a few minor papers, done
some cable television work. But for the last several years
he’s written quarterly reports for corporations. His last client
was Stasher-Layman. Have you heard of them?”

“No.”

“Big construction outfit, based in Texas. Builders of
government housing and other tax-financed projects. They put
up ticky-tack boxes, sell the management contract for high
profits, and walk away. Instant slum. Creedman’s scribblings
for them made them sound like saints. If I hadn’t thrown the
reports out, I’d show them to you.”

“You researched him?”

“After we caught him
snooping I thought it prudent.”

“Okay,” I said. “So he’s a corporate hack. Is he wrong
about your wealth?”

He pulled on a long, pale finger till it cracked.
Righted his glasses. Brushed nonexistent dust from the desk.

“I won’t tell you I’m poor, but family fortunes recede
unless the heirs are talented in business. I’m not. Which
means I’m in no position to build airports or lease entire
fleets of boats. I’m doing all I can.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry for bringing it up, then.”

“No apology necessary. You’re a passionate young man.
Passionate but focused. It’s rare when the two go hand in hand:
“I may not hope from outward forms to win the passion and
the life, whose fountains are within’—Coleridge said that.
Another great thinker; even narcotics didn’t still
his
genius. .   .   . Your passion even comes through your
scientific writing, son.
That’s
why I asked you to join
me.”

“And here I thought it was my experience with police
cases.”

He sat back and let out another shrill laugh.
“Passionate
and
observant. Yes,
your experience with criminal behavior was a bonus because to
me it means you have a strict sense of right and wrong.
I admire your sense of justice.”

“What does justice have to do with analyzing medical
charts?”

“I was speaking in an abstract sense—doing things
ethically.”

“Are you sure that’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has the cannibal murder remained on your mind, Bill? Have
you been more worried about recurrence than you let on? Because if
that’s it, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve gotten
involved in a few bloody things, mostly because of
my friendship with Milo Sturgis. But he’s the detective, not
me.”

He took time to answer. Staring at his wife’s
watercolors. Twisting his fingers as if they were knitting
needles.

“Worry’s too strong a word, son. Let’s just say the
possibility
of recurrence has remained in the back of my
mind. AnneMarie’s murder was my first real brush with this
kind of thing, so I read up on it and learned that recurrence
is the norm, not the exception. When I learned you had some
experience with murder in addition to your scholarly achievements, I
felt a great sense of .   .   . appropriateness.”

“How similar is Betty’s murder to AnneMarie Valdos’s?”

“Dennis claims there
are .   .   . similarities.”

“Was Betty cannibalized?”

“Not   .   .   .” He tapped the desk. The flutter of
wings outside a window made us both start. Nightbirds or bats.

“Not yet,” he said. “Nothing was missing. She
was   .   .   .”
He shook his head. “Decapitated and eviscerated, but nothing
had been taken.”

“What about the long bones?”

“One leg was broken—hacked but not severed.”

“What kind of knife was used?”

He didn’t reply.

“Bill?”

“Knives,” he said miserably. “A set of surgical tools
were found there.”

“Ben’s?”

Headshake.

“Yours?”

“An old set I’d once owned.”

“Did you give it to Ben?”

“No. It was kept here—in the lab. In a drawer of this
desk.”

“Where Ben had easy access.”

He nodded, almost crying. “But you must believe me, Ben
would never take anything without permission. Never! I know
it sounds bad for him, but
please
believe me.”

“AnneMarie had a drinking problem,” I said. “You
implied Betty did, too.”

“Did I?”

“Back in the house you said she used to
smoke and .   .   . Then you trailed off and said she’d
been taking excellent
care of herself during her pregnancy.”

“The poor thing’s dead. Why besmirch her memory?”

“Because it may be relevant. She’s beyond hurt, Bill.
Was she an alcoholic?”

“No, not an alcoholic. She was
a .   .   . friendly girl.
She smoked and drank a bit.”

“What does friendly have to do with it?”

“Friendly,” he said. “To the sailors.”

“Like AnneMarie. One of those girls who went up to
Victory Park. Was it common knowledge in the village?”

“I don’t know
what’s
common knowledge. I heard it
from her mother.”

“Her mother complained about Betty’s promiscuity?”

“Ida brought Betty in to be
treated for a venereal infection.”

“Gonorrhea?”

He nodded.

“When?”

“A year ago. Before she became engaged. We kept it
confidential from Mauricio—her boyfriend. Tested him, too,
under a false pretense. Negative. Eventually they married.”

“Maybe he found out anyway and reacted.”

“This? No, not Mauricio. What was done to her was
beyond .   .   . no, no, impossible. Mauricio’s not
a .   .   . calculating
sort. He’d never have thought to incriminate Ben.”

“Not smart enough?”

“He’s simple. As was Betty.”

I remembered Betty’s open manner and easy smile.
Trusting me enough after meeting me to talk about herself. No
bra under the tank top   .   .   .

“Simple and trusting,” I said. “A drinker, overly
friendly with the boys. Sounds like a perfect victim. What
was Ben’s relationship with her?”

“They knew each other the way everyone on the island
knows each other.”

“Did Ben know about her gonorrhea?”

He thought. “I didn’t discuss it with him.”

“But he could have found out—read it in the
chart.”

“Ben was busy enough without sticking his nose where it
didn’t belong.”

“Maybe he came across it by accident. We both know
you’re not a compulsive filer.”

No answer. He got up and paced, twisting his fingers
again, bobbing his neck.

I said, “Learning that, he could have assumed she was
easy.”

“I didn’t record the diagnosis in my notes. I made sure to
protect her.”

“What did you write?”

“Just that she had an infection that required
penicillin.”

“Someone with Ben’s medical sophistication could have
figured it out, Bill. And what about the lab tests? Did you
destroy the results?”

“I—don’t believe so .   .   . but still
it’s not possible. Not Ben. Why are you
thinking
in these terms?”

“Because I have an open mind. If that upsets you, we can
end the discussion.”

He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t the last
time I’ll be hearing these kinds of speculations. I might as
well get used to it. Let’s assume—for the sake of
argument—that Ben did know she’d been infected. Why in the
world would he murder her?”

“As I said, it could have led him to believe she was
easy. One scenario is that they’d had a relationship for a while,
or even that last night was a one-night stand. In either
case, they went up to the park, got drunk, and things got out
of
hand.”

“That’s ridiculous! You saw him with Claire tonight.
He loves her, they’ve got so much going—the children.”

“Lots of psychopaths lead double lives.”