The Golem of Hollywood (33 page)

H
e arrived in Oxford too late for anything but a chip shop dinner. Outside, roving packs of townies warbled football anthems and amiably chucked bottles at undergraduates.

The Black Swan hostel had no private rooms. Jacob opted to share a triple, taking care not to wake his roommates, a pair of backpackers, asleep with their arms around their bags, proxy lovers made of ripstop nylon.

He stashed his own bag under his bed, removing first his passport and the drawings of Mr. Head.

Downstairs in the common room, smelly, dented beanbag chairs surrounded an abandoned game of Scrabble. A German neo-hippie covered “Touch of Grey” on a pawnshop guitar while his inamorata attempted to retighten her electric-blue cornrows, a hand mirror clamped between her knees.

In an act of divine benevolence, the front desk adjoined a fully stocked bar.

Armed with his seventh pint of the day and an Internet passcode, Jacob swung by the wire rack to take a street map, then sat down at the computer kiosk.

There were fewer than a dozen local architects. Of those, four were women. Of the men, two had vaguely kingly names: Charles MacIldowney and John Russell Nance. He clicked on Nance's CV first,
assuming
John
was more readily confused with
James
. But it was Mac-Ildowney—BArch (Manc.), DPhil (Oxon.), RIBA—who had lectured in the history of architecture at Oxford. Jacob marked the location of his office on the map.

The song ended.

Jacob applauded.

The hippie smiled drowsily and raised a V.

After mapping a few more stops, Jacob set aside the mouse pad and spread out the drawings.

Mr. Head, in the prime of life. A fellow artist. A fellow traveler.

Meeting Reggie Heap.

Discovering a common interest.

Really. You don't say.

Okay, okay, but:

Tell me:

Rape.

Front?

Back?

Which do you prefer?

Back?

Really.

How convenient.

Because it just so happens that I am, one hundred percent, a front man.

Heap and Head!

World's worst buddy sitcom. He could picture the logo, the
p
and
d
spinning, a delirious visual pun.

The timeline fit. Reggie, born in 1966, would've graduated in 1987 or 1988.

What brought a pair of Englishmen to L.A.?

Had they been all around this great big world and seen all kinds of girls?

Did they wish they all could be California girls?

Or: Mr. Head wasn't English. A visiting student; an exchange program.

Cream of our crop in return for yours. Reinforce the Special Relationship.

Inviting Reggie back to the States to continue their collaboration.

You're gonna love the weather.

Reggie, appealing to his generous mother for a graduation present.

There's this amazing program . . .

The unique synergy of two lesser malignancies—each man validating and goading the other, twisting him into something exponentially worse.

The Lennon and McCartney of evil.

The long hiatus—what accounted for it? Jacob could not connect either man, either directly or implicitly, to any crimes between 1988 and 2005, when Dani Forrester bled out in her overfinanced condo.

And there was a wider world to wonder about. What mischief had Heap the Younger wrought while out broadening his horizons?

What about New York? Miami? New Orleans?

How long had they been at it?

Like artists, psychopaths were temperamental.

Collaborations of either kind rarely lasted a lifetime or spanned the globe.

Heap and Head could've started out as partners before venturing into side projects.

Side projects that had blossomed into full-fledged solo careers?

Then: once a year, a hop across the pond, get the band back together?

Heap and Head: the U.S. Reunion Tour!

The Las Vegas Strip . . . Bourbon Street . . .

And coming soon to a ground-floor apartment near you!

He shuddered to think of the shower of red tape triggered by requesting a copy of Reggie's passport.

It felt wonderful to have facts, however few, at his disposal. He quashed his excitement, as concerned with controlling the fluctuations in his mood as he was with making a mistake.

Let's not get a Head of ourselves, mmmmmmmm?

Even if he did definitively ID H&H as the Creeper, that still left open the question of who'd killed them. They couldn't very well have decapitated each other, separated by twelve months and six thousand miles.

Psychopath vs. Psychopath was out.

Vengeful party looking better by the minute.

But: how did VP know?

How did he (she) find them?

Whose voice on the tape?

How did it fit with Special Projects?

It was 2:13 a.m. The hippies had passed out and were sawing wood. Jacob went upstairs. For the first time in a long time, his dreams were in full color.

W
ith a decent night's sleep under his belt, he had gained some mental traction. In the hostel's cafeteria he loaded up a tray with meats 'n' grease and sequestered himself at the end of the communal table, away from a gaggle of Canadians chirping over their idealized itinerary: punting on the Thames, followed by lunch at an authentic pub, Blackwell's Literary Walking Tour, a visit to the Bodleian . . .

Jacob's own itinerary was themed Rational Cop. First stop: the Thames Valley Police's St. Aldates station.

He meandered along the river path under the caress of willow trees. Waterfowl busy in the marsh grass rose up at his approach to demand bread in shrill addict's tones. He spotted a narrow red streak across gray water: a boat, eight oarsmen, a coxswain politely urging them toward the bridge.

The station was decidedly inconspicuous, three tan stories that played down the possibility of crime in a town so picturesque. If not for a modest white sign and two glass cases containing bulletin boards with information about community watch, he could have been walking into the registrar's office.

The constable on duty jotted down Jacob's badge number and led him to a cheerless conference room.

In five minutes, he'd finished his tea; after twenty, he stood up to wait
in the hallway. He assumed the locals were establishing his bona fides with LAPD. He could speed up the process by giving them a direct number.

Mallick? Or his ex-boss at Traffic, Captain Chen?

Who was less likely to make Jacob sound like an imposter?

He hadn't yet decided when a woman with a pert blond bob appeared.

“Good morning, Detective. Inspector Norton.”

“Good morning. Everything check out?”

A flicker of a smile. “To what do we owe the privilege of your visit?”

He showed her the photos he'd taken of young Reggie Heap; showed her the drawing of Mr. Head; told her, in general terms, what he wanted: local homicides, unsolved, 1983ish to 1988. Bonus points if they fit the Creeper MO.

“It doesn't have to match up in every respect. The method could have evolved.”

“That's well before my time, sir.”

“Of course,” he said. “You're far, far too young to have firsthand knowledge.”

“Of course I am. In 1983, I was a mere child
.
”

“I can't imagine you were even born then.”

“It's possible I was. Not much before, of course.”

“Of course not. Might there be someone else? A wise elder?”

She said, “Let's try Branch.”

Branch was about fifty, with a shaven scalp and a toothbrush mustache. He recognized neither the drawing nor the name Reggie Heap.

“He was a student,” Jacob said.

“Those days, the university had their own force,” Branch said. “The Bulldogs.”

“Not anymore?”

“They were disbanded for budgetary reasons,” Norton said. “Ten years ago, roughly.”

“Any of them still around?”

“Sure,” Branch said. “Good luck getting em to talk to you.”

“What you'd expect,” Norton said, “given the university's standing as an incubator of only the nation's finest young men and women.”

Jacob said, “I'd expect a tendency to keep problems in-house.”

“You'd expect correctly, sir.”

“Still, is there someone you could contact on my behalf?”

Branch shook his head. “Won't matter.”

“What you'd expect in a locality such as ours,” Norton said, “notorious for its lengthy history of town-gown conflict.”

“Departmental bad blood,” Jacob said.

“Once again, Detective, your expectations prove exceedingly reasonable.”

“I'll put my brain to it,” Branch said. “Whatever that's worth.”

That sounded like lip service, but Jacob thanked him anyway.

Norton accompanied him to the street.

“Sorry we couldn't be more helpful.”

“Not a problem.”

“Shame,” she said. “I'd have thought Branch would be more enthusiastic. It's not every day we get someone dropping round about a murder.” She paused. “Though I will say, we're quite good at breaking up raves.”

He smiled.

She said, “May I ask how you plan to proceed?”

“Identify the architect. Go to his college. Maybe someone remembers him.”

“And if that line of inquiry fails to bear fruit?”

“There's always punting on the Thames,” he said. “Inspector Norton?”

“Yes, Detective Lev?”

“I expect that you, with local policing authority, would command more respect than I would, and furthermore, since I don't see any raves in progress, I expect that you might be interested in accompanying me on my rounds, after which I expect that you'd enjoy lunch, gratis, courtesy of LAPD.”

She hooked her hair behind her ears. “Detective Lev, your expectations grow more lofty by the moment.”

“Inspector Norton, that's the American way.”

—

I
T
WAS
A
BRIEF
STROLL
down St. Aldates to Christ Church. Spring rain had brought a lively resurgence of the meadows. At mid-morning, the joggers were mostly gone and the picnickers not yet arrived.

Norton's first name was Priscilla. She asked where he was staying.

“YHA, near the train station.”

“How delightful.”

“Don't knock it. Fifteen pounds includes a full English breakfast.”

“Good God, what a nightmare.”

Nearing the entrance at Tom Tower, he observed that not much had changed since his college days: a girl with a smeary face hobbled out in men's sweatpants, a large Kaiser Chiefs T-shirt, and perilously high heels, a gauzy black dress slung over her head to shield her eyes from the sun.

The college's imposing sandstone walls evoked a fortress. Jacob felt like a marauding barbarian, come to breach the ivory tower and put its inhabitants to the torch, more so as they approached the gate, patrolled by a gin blossom in a bowler hat and a dark coat. His name tag identified him as J. Smiley, Porter, Christ Church.

“Hello, Jimmy,” Norton said. “All right?”

“Hallo, Pippi. My lucky day. What brings you by?”

“Touch o' local color for my American friend,” she said.

Smiley stiffened as Jacob described what he was after.

“Regular visiting hours start at one,” the porter said.

“Be nice, Jimmy,” Norton said.

The porter sighed.

“There's a good lad,” she said.

He waved at her in annoyance and picked up an extension.

“Like magic,” Jacob said.

She shrugged. “A little leg goes a long way.”

The dark tunnel of the gate framed emerald lawns, a leaping fountain daring the onlooker to dash forward in defiance of the signs:
KEEP OFF THE GRASS.

“They like their privacy,” Jacob said.

“In-group, out-group.”

“And you, doing your part to repair the rift.”

“Heal the world,” Norton said.

Jimmy Smiley hung up. “Mr. Mitchell's on his way.”

“Cheers,” Norton said.

Deputy Head Porter Graeham Mitchell bore Jacob's spiel with a tolerant smile. “Is this an official police enquiry, Inspector?”

“Not as such.”

“Then I'm afraid I can recommend no course other than to return at one o'clock. There is a guided tour which most people find highly informative.”

Jacob said, “I was hoping to speak with people who would've been around then.”

“You are welcome to register your request, in writing, with the steward.”

“Any chance you might remember him?” Norton said. “What was it again, Detective?”

“Reggie Heap,” Jacob said. He displayed the photo. “His father, Edwyn Heap.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Mitchell said, “but I cannot recall anyone by that name.”

“If you could take a look at—”

“I regret that I cannot be of further assistance, sir.”

“What about this one,” Jacob said, starting to unroll the drawing of Head.

“I hope you'll excuse me? The sermon will have begun. Best of luck to you both.” Mitchell marched off, his shoes tapping on the cobblestones.

Norton turned to Smiley. “Thanks anyway, Jim.”

The porter, writing in the logbook, tore off a corner of a page and handed it to her. Norton put it in her pocket. “Ta,” she said.

The porter touched his hat, clasped his hands behind his back, and resumed his pacing.

Jacob waited until they had gone ten yards to ask, “What was that about?”

Norton showed him the scrap of paper. On it Smiley had scrawled
Friar & Maiden 20:00
.