Secrets to the Grave (7 page)

“We met Dr. Zahn this morning,” Vince said. “He’s a complicated kind of guy.”

“Yes. That’s safe to say,” Buckman agreed. “Zander is a genuine genius. We’re very lucky to have him in any capacity. But he does have certain ... limitations.”

“Some high-functioning offshoot of autism?” Vince asked.

“Good guess.”

“And this guy can be a professor?” Mendez said. “Here?”

“He’s not intellectually impaired,” Vince explained. “He’s socially challenged.”

Mendez grimaced as he stared down at his notebook. “I’ll say.” “Of course, you understand I can’t really discuss a faculty member’s mental health with you,” Buckman said.

“No, of course not,” Vince said. “I’m just trying to get some insights on the man. Put some things into context.”

“You said something happened to a neighbor of his?”

“A woman he was friends with was murdered,” Mendez told him. “Zahn discovered her body.”

“Oh my God,” Buckman said. “Another woman murdered? Not again. It’s not like the others—”

“No, no,” Vince assured him. “Unrelated.”

“That’s not good news either, is it? You don’t think Dr. Zahn—?”

“We don’t have any reason to think that, sir,” Mendez said. “He reported the crime and cooperated fully this morning.”

“Thank God.” Buckman sighed. “That explains why he hasn’t come in today. He was supposed to give a lecture this morning. His assistant reported he wouldn’t be able to make it, that he was terribly upset, but that he wouldn’t say why.”

“Does he do that often?” Vince asked. “Cancel?”

“Sometimes he cancels. Other times he becomes so absorbed in the subject matter he goes on with a lecture for hours over his allotted time. He’s difficult, but he’s a brilliant mathematician. The students are all aware of his issues, but his classes are always full with a waiting list.”

“He has an assistant?” Mendez prompted.

“Rudy Nasser,” Buckman said. “Brilliant young man. He has advanced degrees in physics and mathematics from USC. He could have a very good position at any top school in the country. He came up here to work with Dr. Zahn. He’s probably one of a handful of people in the world who can truly follow the density of Zahn’s reasoning. He probably understands the man better than anyone. You’ll want to talk to him.”

 

 

“Marissa Fordham is dead?”

Mendez went instantly on guard. All he had said was that Dr. Zahn’s neighbor had been killed.

“It has to be Marissa,” Nasser explained. “She’s the only neighbor Dr. Zahn ever visits.”

Rudy Nasser sat back against the edge of the desk. The lecture hall had emptied out except for a couple of students still copying notes from the big chalkboard. It looked like Aramaic to Vince. The students—both cute girls—seemed more interested in stealing glances at their teacher than his mathematical concepts.

“Did you know her?” Mendez asked.

Nasser pulled in a deep breath and blew it back out as he processed the information and whatever it meant to him.

“This is bad, man.”

In his mid-twenties, he looked like a beatnik with the black goatee and soulful dark eyes, and dressed like a
Miami Vice
drug lord in a slouchy charcoal suit over a black T-shirt and loafers with no socks. He was undoubtedly as socially smooth as his mentor was socially awkward.

“Yes, I knew her,” he said. “Dr. Zahn ...”

He shook his head and left the thought unfinished.

“Dr. Zahn what?”

Nasser shrugged, not wanting to say too much. “Was fond of her. He found her body?”

“Yes,” Vince said. “He called nine-one-one.”

“He didn’t tell me. When he called this morning I knew something had happened. He was so agitated. But he wouldn’t tell me.”

Vince could see him planning damage control, how to get his eccentric boss away from the fray of a murder investigation.

“How well did you know her?” Mendez asked.

“Well enough to have a conversation. I gave her my number to call if she needed me.”

“Needed you to what?”

“To come get Dr. Zahn. He doesn’t always know when he’s worn out his welcome. When he gets manic he loses all sense of time.”

“Does that happen often?” Vince asked, trying to imagine Zahn in a manic state. He had seemed closer to catatonic that morning.

“Not often.”

“Recently?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“How is he during these episodes?” Vince asked.

“Happy,” Nasser said. “Euphoric, in fact. Like he’s in the throes of some kind of rapture. He becomes animated, can’t stop talking about whatever idea has taken hold of him. He’s done some of his best work in that state of mind.”

“How did Ms. Fordham react when this happened?” Mendez asked. “Was she afraid?”

Nasser shook his head. “No. Marissa took it in stride. She’s been his neighbor for several years. She knows Dr. Zahn isn’t a violent man. I can’t imagine him ever hurting anybody. He doesn’t like touching people or having people touch him. I’m sure it never entered Marissa’s mind that he might hurt her somehow.”

“Were they involved?”

“Sexually?” Nasser laughed, flashing an array of brilliantly white teeth. “No. God, no. Like I said: Dr. Zahn doesn’t like touching anyone. If you shake his hand, he’ll go open a fresh bar of soap and scrub like a surgeon.”

“He’s obsessive-compulsive?” Vince said, not surprised to hear it. He thought back to Zahn wringing his hands over and over as they asked him questions.

“To the tenth power.”

“What about you, Mr. Nasser?” Mendez asked. “Ms. Fordham was a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she was. But my first obligation is to Dr. Zahn. I would never jeopardize my position with him. The man is fucking brilliant. He has one of the brightest minds of our time.”

“And you’re one of the few people who can understand it,” Vince said.

“I’ve been a disciple for a long time. I realize how fortunate I am to be working with him.”

“What exactly is your role here?” Vince asked.

“Dr. Zahn doesn’t like to interact with people,” Nasser said.

“That must make it difficult for him to teach.”

“That’s where I come in,” Nasser said. “Mathematics is his world. He’s most comfortable with numbers, not people. And he loves trying to open that world to others, but he’s socially awkward. I’m here to do the actual interaction with the kids, sort of a liaison, if you will.”

“That makes sense.”

“And Ms. Fordham?” Mendez asked. “What was your take on her?”

Nasser glanced away and shrugged. “She seemed nice enough. I wasn’t a fan of her art. Too sweet, too idyllic for my tastes.”

Vince thought of the scene in Marissa Fordham’s retro-ranch kitchen. There had been nothing sweet or idyllic about that—except perhaps in the eyes of the person who had wanted her dead.

“We have some additional questions for Dr. Zahn,” he said. “Can you give us directions to his house?”

“I’m finished here,” Nasser said. “I’ll take you.”

10

Rudy Nasser led the way out of town in his old black BMW 3 Series convertible. The two-lane road wound through beautiful country quilted by four-rail fences and studded with spreading oak trees. They passed horse ranches and vineyards, and a lavender farm that colored the valley floor purple as far back toward the mountains as the eye could see.

“I’m surprised you let him come along,” Mendez said, glancing over at Vince.

“Let’s see that dynamic,” Vince said. “Let’s see how Zahn interacts with someone we can assume he’s comfortable with. He might let his guard down more.”

“In that case, I’m surprised you let me come along. I make the guy nervous.”

“You need to learn patience.”

Mendez rolled his eyes. “I know, I know.”

“You’re like a great fastball pitcher,” Vince said. “But you can’t just throw fastballs for the whole game. You’re going to come up against guys who can belt your best one out of the park. Your arm is going to get tired and you’re not going to get them all over the plate. You need a repertoire. You need a change-up. You need a slider. The occasional spitball.”

This was one reason Mendez had chosen to remain in Oak Knoll, even though Leone had encouraged him to make the move to the Bureau with an eye to eventually becoming a part of the Investigative Support Unit. He wanted to learn from the best. Vince Leone was the best, and Vince Leone was here.

He slowed and turned the department Taurus onto Dyer Canyon Road, and gave it a little gas to catch up to the quicker BMW.

“What do you make of him?” Vince asked.

“Nasser? He’s got it all going on—the smarts, the looks, working his dream job with his hero,” he said, grinning. “Kinda like me.”

Vince laughed.

“He’s a little on the slick side,” Mendez commented. “He’s sure as hell not like any math teacher I ever had.”

“I guess the new math is sexy,” Vince said. “My math teachers all had horn-rimmed glasses and thick ankles.”

Zander Zahn’s home sat behind a high stucco privacy wall. Only the tile roof of the house was visible from where they parked the cars on the shoulder of the road.

“He won’t want you going inside the house,” Nasser explained. “And he won’t like it if you touch anything in the yard.”

He keyed in the gate code and the solid wooden gate rolled back.

Mendez had been about to ask why they didn’t just drive in, but the reason was obvious. Every inch of Zahn’s yard was covered with stuff. Whatever lawn there had been at one time had been removed and replaced with decomposed granite dust, creating a parking lot for all manner of junk—all of it neatly arranged in categories.

Groups of old kitchen chairs. A collection of plant pots organized by size with the smallest in the front row and the largest in the back. Concrete statuary—from gargoyles to lions to replicas of Michelangelo’s
David
and the Statue of Liberty.

He seemed to have a special affinity for refrigerators, which were lined up front to back, row after row, like a platoon of soldiers; and for chest-style freezers, rectangular box after rectangular box, like so many rusty white coffins.

“I’ll buzz him at the front door,” Nasser went on as they followed the narrow path to the house. “Hopefully, he’ll agree to come out. Better if the two of you stay a good ten feet back.”

He hustled up the steps ahead of them.

Mendez glanced at Leone. “What the fuck?”

“He’s a hoarder,” Vince said, looking over the collections through a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Interesting.”

“It’s part of the obsessive-compulsive disorder?”

“It would seem to be, but there’s a lot of conflicting opinions on the subject. For instance, we’ve already seen that Zahn is a germaphobe, yet hoarding often creates unsanitary conditions. The two seem not to go together, yet here we are.”

“When I was in a uniform in Bakersfield, I had a call-out on a possible missing person,” Mendez said. “A woman reported her elderly mother missing after not hearing from her for several days. She had gone to the mother’s house. No sign of her.

“Me and my partner get there. You can’t believe this place. It was like a landfill inside a building—and smelled like one too. You could hardly walk inside. Every window was blocked. There were mice and rats like something out of a horror movie. Long story short: It took three days and a cadaver dog to find the woman’s body. A pile of stuff had fallen on her and buried her alive.”

Vince looked around at the yard. “At least Dr. Zahn is tidy.”

Contrary to Nasser’s instructions, Vince took the step below him and struck a casual stance with his hands in his pants pockets. The breeze flipped his necktie back over his shoulder.

Zahn’s voice came out of the squawk box on the wall above the doorbell. “Who are you?”

Nasser answered, “It’s me—Rudy.”

“Who’s with you? Someone is with you. Why would you bring someone here? You know not to bring someone here. Why would you do that?”

“They’re detectives, Zander. It’s about Marissa. They need to speak to you.”

No answer.

Vince leaned past a frowning Nasser and pressed the intercom button himself. “It’s Vince Leone, Zander,” he said in a pleasant, casual tone. “We spoke earlier this morning at Marissa’s house. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a couple more questions you might be able to help me with.”

“I don’t think so, Vince,” Zahn said. “I don’t think I can help you. I’m terribly upset by all of this.”

“I know. So is everyone—especially people who loved Marissa. Imagine what it would mean to her if you could help in any small way to find her killer. You’ve been such a good friend to her.”

No sound came out of the box for moment. Mendez looked from Vince to Nasser and back.

“I do have some good news from the hospital,” Vince said. “I went to check on little Haley, and she’s going to be fine.”

Another moment passed then came the sound of locks being turned on the other side of the front door. Zahn emerged wearing what looked to Mendez like black Chinese pajamas and a pair of clogs.

“Haley?” he said, looking up and just to the right of Leone’s head, as if he were seeing a vision in the sky. “Haley is all right? She’s going to be all right?”

“I spoke to her doctor.”

“Oh my God. Oh thank God,” Zahn whispered, wringing his hands absently as he spoke. “Could I see her? Do you think that might be possible—that I could speak to her and see her?”

“You would have to go into the hospital to see her, Zander,” Nasser said.

Zahn looked at him sharply.

His assistant shrugged. “Hospitals are full of sick people.”

“Haley isn’t sick, though,” Zahn pointed out. “She’s injured. She was injured somehow and her heart is broken. She’ll be heartbroken over Marissa. I’m heartbroken.”