Mutation (18 page)

     "I suppose the office is bedlam?" Victor asked sheepishly.

     "Now he thinks he's indispensable," Colleen joked to Robert. "Actually, things aren't too bad. I've handled most of what has come up. But there is something that you should know right away."

     "What is it?" said Victor, suddenly concerned.

     "Perhaps I could talk to you in private?" Colleen said. She smiled at Robert to indicate she did not mean to be rude.

     "Of course," Victor said awkwardly. He moved across the lab to one of the benches. Colleen followed.

     "It's about Gephardt," Colleen said. "Darryl Webster, who's in charge of the investigation, has been trying to get you all day. He finally told me what it was all about. Seems that he has uncovered a slew of irregularities. While Gephardt was purchasing supervisor for Chimera a lot of laboratory equipment vanished."

     "Like what?" Victor questioned.

     "Big-ticket items," Colleen said. "Fast protein liquid chromatography units, DNA sequencers, mass spectrometers, things like that."

     "Good God!"

     "Darryl thought you should know," Colleen added.

     "Did he find bogus orders?"

     "No," Colleen said. "That's what makes it so weird. Receiving got the equipment. It just never went to the department that was supposed to have ordered it. And the department in question never said anything because they hadn't placed the order."

     "So Gephardt fenced it," Victor said, amazed. "No wonder his attorney was so hot to cut a deal. He knew what we would find."

     Angrily, Victor remembered that the note around the brick referred to a deal. In all likelihood, Gephardt had been behind the harassment.

     "I assume we have the bastard's telephone number," Victor said with venom.

     "I guess," Colleen said. "Should be in his employee record."

     "I want to give Gephardt a call. I'm tired of talking through that lawyer of his."

     On the way back to the administration building, Colleen had to run to keep up with Victor. She'd never seen him so angry.

     He was still fuming as he dialed Gephardt's number, motioning for Colleen to stay in the room so she could be a witness to what was said. But the phone rang interminably. "Damn it!" Victor cursed. "The bastard either is out or he's not answering. What's his address?"

     Colleen looked it up and found a street number in Lawrence, not far from Chimera.

     "I think I'll stop and pay the man a visit on the way home," Victor said. "I have a feeling he's been to my house. It's time I return the call."

     When one of her patients called in sick, Marsha decided to use the hour to visit Pendleton Academy, the private school that VJ had been attending since kindergarten.

     The campus was beautiful even though the trees were still bare and the grass a wintry brown. The stone buildings were covered with ivy, giving the appearance of an old college or university.

     Marsha pulled up to the administration building and got out. She wasn't as familiar with the school as she might have been. Although she and Victor had made regular Parents' Day visits, she'd met the headmaster, Perry Remington, on only two occasions. She hoped he would see her.

     When she entered the building she was pleased to find a number of secretaries busy at their desks. At least it wasn't a vacation week for the staff. Mr. Remington was in his office and was kind enough to see Marsha within a few minutes.

     He was a big man with a full, well-trimmed beard. His bushy brows poked over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses.

     "We are always delighted to see parents," Mr. Remington said, offering her a chair. He sat down, crossed his legs, and balanced a manila folder on his knee. "What's on your mind?"

     "I'm curious about my son, VJ," Marsha said. "I'm a psychiatrist and to be honest with you, I'm a bit worried about him. I know his grades are good, but I wondered how he was doing generally." Marsha paused. She didn't want to put words into Mr. Remington's mouth.

     The headmaster cleared his throat. "When they told me you were outside, I quickly reviewed VJ's record," he said. He tapped the folder, then he shifted his position, crossing the other leg. "Actually, if you hadn't stopped by I'd have probably given you a ring when school reopened. VJ's teachers are also concerned about him. Despite his excellent grades, your son seems to have an attention problem. His teachers say that he often appears to be daydreaming or off in his own world, though they admit if they call on him he always has the right answer."

     "Then why are the teachers concerned?" asked Marsha.

     "I guess it's because of the fights."

     "Fights!" exclaimed Marsha. "I've never heard a word about fights."

     "There have been four or five episodes this year alone."

     "Why hasn't this been brought to my attention?" Marsha asked with some indignation.

     "We didn't contact you because VJ specifically asked us not to do so."

     "That's absurd!" Marsha said, raising her voice. "Why would you take orders from VJ?"

     "Just a moment, Dr. Frank," Mr. Remington said. "In each incident it was apparent to the staff member present that your son was severely provoked and that he only used his fists as a last resort. Each incident involved a known bully apparently responding childishly to your son's . . . er, uniqueness. There was nothing equivocal about any of these incidents. VJ was never at fault and never the instigator. Consequently, we respected his wishes not to bother you."

     "But he could have been hurt," Marsha said, settling back in her chair.

     "That's the other surprising thing," Mr. Remington said. "For a boy who doesn't go out for athletics, VJ handled himself admirably. One of the other boys came away with a broken nose."

     "I seem to be learning a lot about my son these days," Marsha said. "What about friends?"

     "He's pretty much of a loner," Mr. Remington said. "In fact, he doesn't interact well with the other students. Generally, there is no hostility involved. He just does 'his own thing.' "

     That was not what Marsha wanted to hear. She'd hoped her son was more social in school than at home. "Would you describe VJ as a happy child?" she asked.

     "That's a tough question," Mr. Remington said. "I don't feel he is unhappy, but VJ doesn't display much emotion at any time."

     Marsha frowned. The flat effect sounded schizoid. The picture was getting worse, not better.

     "One of our math instructors, Raymond Cavendish," Mr. Remington offered, "took a particular interest in VJ. He made an enormous effort to penetrate what he called VJ's private world."

     Marsha leaned forward. "Really? Was he successful?"

     "Unfortunately, no," Mr. Remington said. "But the reason I mentioned it was because Raymond's goal was to get VJ involved in extracurricular activities like sports. VJ was not very interested even though he'd shown an innate talent for basketball and soccer. But I agreed with Raymond's opinion: VJ needs to develop other interests."

     "What initially interested Mr. Cavendish in my son?"

     "Apparently he was impressed by VJ's aptitude for math. He put VJ in a gifted class that included kids from several grades. Each was allowed to proceed at his own pace. One day when he was helping some high school kids with their algebra, he noticed VJ daydreaming. He called his name to tell him to get back to work. VJ thought he was calling on him for an answer and, to everyone's amazement, VJ offered the solution to the high schooler's problem."

     "That's incredible!" Marsha said. "Would it be possible for me to talk with Mr. Cavendish?"

     Mr. Remington shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Mr. Cavendish died a couple of years ago."

     "Oh, I'm sorry," Marsha said.

     "It was a great loss to the school," Mr. Remington agreed.

     There was a pause in the conversation. Marsha was about to excuse herself when Mr. Remington said, "If you want my opinion, I think it would be to VJ's benefit if he were to spend more time here in school."

     "You mean summer session?" Marsha asked.

     "No, no, the regular year. Your husband writes frequent notes for VJ to spend time in his research lab. Now, I am all for alternative educational environments, but VJ needs to participate more, particularly in the extracurricular area. I think-"

     "Just a second," Marsha interrupted. "Are you telling me that VJ misses school to spend time at the lab?"

     "Yes," Mr. Remington said. "Often."

     "That's news to me," Marsha admitted. "I know VJ spends a lot of time at the lab, but I never knew he was missing school to do it."

     "If I were to guess," Mr. Remington said, "I'd say that VJ spends more time at the lab than he does here."

     "Good grief," Marsha said.

     "If you feel as I do," Mr. Remington said, "then perhaps you should talk to your husband."

     "I will," Marsha said, getting to her feet. "You can count on it."

     "I want you to wait in the car," Victor said to VJ and Philip as he leaned forward and looked at Gephardt's house through the windshield. It was a nondescript two-story building with a brick façade and fake shutters.

     "Turn the key so we can at least listen to the radio," VJ said from the passenger seat; Philip was in the back.

     Victor flipped the ignition key. The radio came back on with the raucous rock music VJ had previously selected. It sounded louder with the car engine off.

     "I won't be long," he said, getting out of the car. He was having second thoughts about the confrontation now that he was standing on Gephardt's property. The house was set on a fairly large lot, hidden from its neighbors by thick clusters of birches and maples. A bay window stuck out on the building's left, probably indicating the living room. There were no lights on even though daylight was fading, but a Ford van stood idle in the driveway so Victor figured somebody might be home.

     Victor leaned back inside the car. "I won't be long."

     "You already said that," VJ said, keeping time to the music on the dashboard with the flat of his palm.

     Victor nodded, embarrassed. He straightened up and started for the house. As he walked, he wondered if he shouldn't go home and call. But then he remembered the missing laboratory equipment, the embezzlement of some poor dead employee's paychecks, and the brick through VJ's window. That raised Victor's anger and put determination in his step. As he got closer he glanced at the brick façade and wondered if the brick that had crashed into his house was a leftover from the construction of Gephardt's. Eyeing the bay window, Victor had the urge to throw one of the cobblestones lining the walk through it. Then he stopped.

     Victor blinked as if he thought his eyes were not telling the truth. He was about twenty feet away from the bay window and he could see that many of the panes were already broken, with sharp shards of glass still in place. It was as if his retribution fantasy had become instant reality.

     Glancing back to his car where he could see the silhouettes of VJ and Philip, Victor struggled with an urge to go back and drive away. There was something wrong. He could sense it. He looked back at the broken bay window, then up the front steps at the door. The place was too quiet, too dark. But then Victor wondered what he'd tell VJ: he was too scared? Having come that far, Victor forced himself to continue.

     Going up the front steps, he saw that the door was not completely shut.

     "Hello!" Victor called. "Anybody home?" He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.

     Victor's scream died on his lips. The bloody scene in Gephardt's living room was worse than anything he'd ever seen, even during his internship at Boston City Hospital. Seven corpses, including Gephardt's, were strewn grotesquely around the living room. The bodies were riddled with bullets and the smell of cordite hung heavily in the air.

     The killer must have only just left because blood was still oozing from the wounds. Besides Gephardt, there was a woman about Gephardt's age who Victor guessed was his wife, an older couple, and three children. The youngest looked about five. Gephardt had been shot so many times that the top part of his head was gone.

     Victor straightened up from checking the last body for signs of life. Weak and dizzy, he walked to the phone wondering if he should be touching anything. He didn't bother with an ambulance, but dialed the police, who said a car would be there right away.

     Victor decided to wait in the car. He was afraid if he stayed in the house any longer he'd be sick.

     "We're going to be here for a little while," Victor shouted as he slid in behind the wheel. He turned the radio down. The image of all the dead people was etched in his mind. "There's a little trouble inside the house and the police are on their way."

     "How long?" VJ asked.

     "I'm not sure. Maybe an hour or so."

     "Any fire trucks coming?" Philip asked eagerly.

     The police arrived in force with four squad cars, probably the entire Lawrence PD fleet. Victor did not go back inside but hung around on the front steps. After about a half hour one of the plainclothesmen came out to talk to him.

     "I'm Lieutenant Mark Scudder," he said. "They got your name and address, I presume."

     Victor told him they had.

     "Bad business," Scudder said. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match out onto the lawn. "Looks like some drug-related vendetta-the kind of scene you expect to see south of Boston, but not up here."

     "Did you find drugs?" Victor asked.

     "Not yet," Scudder said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "But this sure wasn't any crime of passion. Not with the artillery they used. There must have been two or three people shooting in there."

     "Are you people going to need me much longer?" Victor asked.

     Scudder shook his head. "If they got your name and number, you can go whenever you want."