Free Dreams in the Key of Blue by John Philpin Page A

and pie charts.
    Jasper was crisp, pure business. All she needed was an infomercial and a bar code to slap on her product, whatever it was.
    I thought of James Brussel, the New York psychiatrist who was responsible for the existence of “the field.” “Surely Dr. Brussel merited—”
    “Same class,” she snapped, cutting me off. “Brussel was an urban myth. He wrote his own book, then the folk tales took over. I don’t have time for this.”
    She swung back to the table and flipped open her laptop.
    Jaworski glanced at me with an expression of helplessness.
    I grinned at him. Maybe this was going to get fun. “Ms. Jasper, if Brussel’s analysis of George Metesky, New York’s ‘Mad Bomber,’ was a myth, why did your federal colleagues rely on it when they did their profile of the Unabomber?”
    “I don’t believe that’s so, Dr. Frank,” she answered, slapping her palm on the table. “Look, we have three dead women here, and—”
    “I have doubts about Stanley Markham,” I said.
    She swiveled around. “I see. You have some
psychic
insight about Markham.”
    “He worked the Markham case,” Herb said with a look of desperation that told me he did not have a clue about what was happening in his office. “He knows Markham.”
    “I also know that Quantico won’t work a case if you recruit your own ‘mind hunter,’ Herb,” I said. “Why don’t I bow out? You’ll have the pros coming, and I have a class to teach.”
    The pros. Shit.
    Through two decades, I had watched the pros grow increasingly political. They learned and applied the marketing techniques necessary to justify and sustain funding. They knew their target audience and quickly reacted to the public’s perception of crime. A de facto hierarchy of atrocity evolved. Serial murder topped the list, but included its own gradations of outrageousness. Multiple killings of prostitutes or the homeless did not approach the monstrousness of child murders. The slaughter of three female college students was near the top of the list.
    Jaworski followed me through the station to the parking lot. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked.
    “I guess we old farts don’t know much.”
    “I’m sorry, Lucas. I had no idea she was going to be so, well… hostile. This is my case, and I need your help with it. When I want the feds around, I’ll ask them.”
    I stopped at the door, turned, and faced the veteran cop. “I meant what I said. If the FBI Support Services people know you have someone private working the case, they won’t come in.”
    “We’ll manage.”
    I hesitated only a moment, then nodded my agreement. “I ran into Steve Weld this morning,” I said.
    “He tell you about seeing Gilman’s car at the motel?”
    I nodded. “He’s got no use for Gilman.”
    “Weld is a funny guy. Dresses like a hippie, but he’s sharp. I called the motel after I talked to him. Gilman was there with two guests. All of them checked out Sunday morning.”
    “Why is he lying?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m keeping that information to myself for now.”
    I asked Jaworski what two-year-old “incident” Weld had referred to.
    “We didn’t have much to do with that,” the chief said. “One of MI’s foreign visitors got drunk and disappeared from the campus. Gilman filed the missing-persons report the next morning. The fear took over after that. The body… well, what was left of it… washed up on the beach two weeks later. Fish did a thorough job on him. The medical examiner never determined a cause of death. Why do you ask?”
    I shrugged. “Weld implied that there was something to it. I don’t know.”
    “I’m gonna go have a talk with Karen. You take a look at the autopsy material.”
    I watched the chief disappear into the building.
    A murder investigation usually reveals unrelated misdeeds and the myriad foibles of the cast of characters.
    Two years earlier, an intoxicated foreign visitor had become a meal for the fish.
    Steve Weld