Free The Traveller by John Katzenbach Page B

Perry.
    ‘You know, Merce, we were damn close at the end to
    indicting him for Susan’s murder. We had the newspaper
    clipping found at his house, and after the guy’s picture ran
    in the newspaper a couple of students who were at the bar
    with Susan the night of the killing made him. They would
    |have testified that they saw him there that night. Trouble
    was, they didn’t see him with her, or follow her out, and
    one of the students distinctly remembers seeing the creep after Susan had to have disappeared. So we were close,
    but..’
    “Can I have their names?’
    ‘Sure.’
    | She scribbled them down. She intended to visit them.
    She thought often of the Lebanese student’s head shaking. What, she thought repeatedly. What was he
    saying?
    She lay in bed feeling blackness surround her. It was weeks after the sentencing; the tropical springtime with its great rush of growth and lushness had enveloped the city. Even the darkness seemed alive with resurgence. Suppose, she thought, he was trying to say, No, I didn’t kill Susan. Don’t be ridiculous. He hated you, she thought. He was mad as
    a March hare. Allah this and Allah that, he was seeking some kind of forgiveness. From her? He was too scared and too arrogant, an impossible combination. Then what was he saying? He shook his head, that’s all. Forget it. How?
    And then she was filled with an odd, disquieting fear, as if there were something very obvious that she had forgotten. For a moment her head spun and then she turned on the light. It rended the nighttime. She padded across the bedroom to a small desk, where she kept all the copies of reports, evidence and notes from the investigation and solution of Susan’s murder. Slowly she spread them about her. Then, carefully, thinking to herself, Be a goddamn detective, stop acting like a grief-stricken puppy, she began to search through them. Look, she said to herself. Find it, whatever it is. Something is there.
    And there was. A small something.
    It was in the evidence-disposition report from her boss.
    Trace alcohol.
    She read: ‘ … Guy must have had a drink or two. Booze always screws everything up … .’
    ‘Oh, God,’ she said out loud to no one.
    She ran to a bookshelf in the living room, pulled out a dictionary, and looked up ‘Shiite Moslem,’ but it wasn’t enough of a help. She spotted a course catalog from the university that Susan had once left behind. She seized it and tore it open. She found Middle Eastern Studies on page 154. She underlined the department chairman’s name and grabbed a telephone book. He was listed.
    She looked at the clock. Three a.m.
    She sat motionless for three hours, trying to blank out her fear.
    Sorry, she thought, as the clock turned 6 a.m. She dialed the number.
    ‘Harley Trench, please.’
    ‘God,’ said a voice clouded with sleep. ‘You’ve got him. No damn extensions, I told you all in class.’
    ‘Professor Trench, this is Detective Mercedes Barren of the City of Miami Police. This is a police matter.’
    Ohmigosh, I’m sorry. It’s usually students. They know I’m an early riser and they take advantage of me …’
    She heard him collect himself. ‘How can I help?’ he asked.
    ‘We have a suspect in an important case who is of Middle Eastern extraction. He claims to be a Shiite Moslem.’ “Oh, like that horrid fellow who killed the young girls.’ ‘Very similar.’ ‘Well, yes, go on …’
    ‘We need to know, well, we can exclude this fellow as a suspect in a case if we can show that he took a drink.’ “You mean, like some alcoholic beverage.’ ‘Right.’
    ‘A beer, or a glass of wine or a gin and tonic’ ‘Right’
    ‘Well, that’s a simple question, detective. If he’s a sincere Shiite, like that poor crazed fellow said he was, not a
    chance.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘A mortal sin, detective. No alcohol at all. Not through their lips. Not any time. It’s a pretty widespread tenet of the fanatic Moslems and the