Dante's Dilemma (26 page)

I squinted in the glare as we passed (according to Hallie) an icicle-clad Field Museum, the spaceship addition ballooning from the top of Soldier Field, and the windswept lakeshore below McCormick Place, bare of anything but prairie grass and scrub oaks peeking from the snow. We exited near the flattened dome of the Museum of Science and Industry and drove west to the Midway Plaisance, once envisioned by Frederick Law Olmstead as a grand, Venetian-style canal and now essentially a huge, dry moat dividing Hyde Park from its destitute neighbors to the south.

Hallie had attended the law school, and she gave me a brief history of the university while we parked and made our way from the car to the social-sciences building. Founded in 1890 by the American Baptist Foundation, it was originally bankrolled by John D. Rockefeller on land donated by Marshall Field. The school was nonsectarian and coeducational from the start, a rarity at the time that quickly attracted free-thinking academics from all over the country. Rockefeller had opened his wallet wide, and the university's first buildings copied the architecture of Oxford almost stone for stone, with more towers, cloisters, tunnels, and arches than you could shake a slide rule at. Hallie described it all in magical detail as we went up and down slippery steps, through shadowy arcades, and across quadrangles so quiet you could practically hear the minds at work in the adjoining classrooms.

“Was it fun going to school here?” I asked Hallie.

Hallie laughed. “Fun is not an approved term in the U of C lexicon.”

“There's the scavenger hunt,” I pointed out. “That must be entertaining—at least when dead bodies aren't involved.”

“Oh, there are extracurricular activities, and plenty of good-natured competition among students. But most of the playtime is very true to the school's lofty reputation. Like Scav. Has anyone ever told you how it works?”

I said no and she explained.

“Well, it's always scheduled so that Judgment Day—the last day of the contest—falls on Mother's Day. The Wednesday before, a list is released, sometimes running to thirty pages or more, of things the students have to find, design, collect, eat, wear, or do, with point values assigned to each one. The teams, usually associated with one of the residential houses, compete to earn the most points, with a group of judges composed of volunteers being the arbiters of how well they've succeeded. Some of the items in the past have caused a bit of a stir. Like the year the list included building a nuclear reactor.”

“Did a team actually do that?”

“Yes. But they missed out on the bonus points for making it edible. Usually it's something simpler, like constructing a laser from ordinary household appliances. Or building an honest-to-God time machine. And then there's all the traditional stuff, like breaking into the Bulls' locker room and stealing a jock strap. Or fashioning an entire wardrobe from Scotch Tape. It's the ultimate nerd challenge.”

“And all this happens over three or four days?”

“Yes, with most of the team members running all over the campus day and night.”

And therefore a swell time to commit murder if you wanted to maintain a low profile.

At last we arrived at Blum's office, in a far-flung corner of a third floor, where a dour-sounding assistant showed us in.

I introduced us, and Blum invited us to sit down. With Hallie to act as my guide, I had only a folding cane with me, which I made a show of collapsing and placing in my lap to remind him how we had met before.

“Yes, I remember you. Aren't you the fellow that ass Peter Crow—”

“Let's not talk about it,” I butt in quickly.

“Very well, though I don't suppose he apologized for it. I got to know Crow quite well, back in the early nineties when I was heading up Magdalen House. You may know that all of our residence halls are divided into multiyear houses, in the fashion of the Oxford colleges. Crow acted as one of the residential advisors. Could hardly be bothered with his duties, but I suppose he needed the free living quarters. Married then, with a toddler and getting his PhD in psychology. Silly discipline,” he added, apparently forgetting it was also mine.

“Yes, well, my colleague and I are here to—”

Blum went on as though I didn't exist. “With all that responsibility—for the students, of course, as well as a young family—you'd think he wouldn't have time for campus politics. But there he was, at the head of every rally, front and center with a bullhorn, decrying the treatment of blacks, Hispanics, Native Americans—excuse me,
Indigenous Peoples—
anyone at all so long as they didn't belong to the white middle class. Are you by any chance an alum?”

“I'm not,” I said. “But Ms. Sanchez here attended the law school.”

“Well, then, perhaps she'll remember the occupation of the administration building in ninety-one. The Vietnam War was long over by then, but a group headed by Crow got it in their heads that the university was unacceptably tied to the military-industrial complex. You're probably aware that it was Fermi's work on this very campus that led to the development of the atomic bomb and . . .”

I let him go on another three minutes before interrupting. “Excuse me. But we were led to believe your time was short.”

“Quite right. I have an appointment with a PhD candidate in twenty minutes. What was it you wanted to see me about?” he asked, making no secret of his boredom.

I decided not to beat about the bush. “We're doing some further looking into Gunther Westlake's death. New evidence has come to light suggesting his wife may be innocent.”

“Really!” Blum exclaimed. “Why that's terrible! Simply terrible!”

“For who—Ms. Lazarus or the university?”

Blum rushed to cover his mistake. “Well, I meant terrible in the sense of a miscarriage of justice, of course. What new evidence?” he demanded suspiciously.

I kept it vague. “Evidence of a possible other killer. We're here to find out whether Westlake had any enemies among your colleagues.”

“A murderer on the faculty? That's preposterous. I'm ending this conversation at once. And notifying university counsel of your inquiries.”

Hallie spoke up then. “Do that and there will be a deposition subpoena on your doorstep faster that you can say Herbert Marcuse. You'll have to answer all our questions then—under oath. Or we can have an informal chat right now. Dr. Angelotti and I aren't interested in creating unnecessary publicity for my alma mater. Or hastily accusing anyone. There's been enough of that already.”

She was bluffing. With Lazarus already convicted, Hallie had no standing to seek a subpoena. And she was treading on thin ice as soon as Blum mentioned the school's lawyers. But the threat was enough to make Blum reconsider his stance.

“Can I have your word that anything I say will be off the record?”

“No you cannot,” Hallie said. “But if you're right and no one here had anything to do with Westlake's murder, you have nothing to lose by being honest with us.”

“Oh, all right,” Blum said dismissively. “But it's still absurd to think you'll find anything here. The university hasn't spawned a murderer in all its hundred-year history.”

“Two actually,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leopold and Loeb. Weren't they undergraduates when they murdered Bobby Franks?”

Caught in an exaggeration, Blum cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose so. But they were students. If you ask me, that's who you should be thinking about.”

“Let's stick to faculty for the moment,” Hallie said. “Was there anyone Westlake didn't get along with?”

Blum seemed to give this some serious thought. “Not really,” he said eventually. “Oh, I'll grant that Gunther wasn't shy about wading into controversy, or adopting a position for the pure joy of demonstrating his intellectual superiority. But he was also enough of a rhetorician to know that
ad hominem
arguments rarely achieve their purpose, at least among true scholars. When he attacked those with whom he disagreed, it was always by exposing the paucity of their reasoning, unlike the blatant editorializing that passes for most social commentary these days. Even those on the faculty who despised his work respected its thoughtfulness.”

“What about personal conflicts?” Hallie asked.

“There again, I can't really help you. In person, Westlake was polite and rather withdrawn. Hardly the bullying narcissist painted by his critics. I would have to say he was reasonably well-liked by his peers.”

“‘Reasonably well-liked'?”

“I see that you were well-trained by my brethren across the Midway, Ms. Sanchez. Yes, I can be accused of overqualifying that last remark. Perhaps I should have stated that while Gunther had few friends on the faculty, he wasn't to my knowledge actively
dis
liked. And before you ask, I wasn't personally fond of the man. I'm not sure exactly why. Perhaps it was the bowties.”

“When did you last see him?”

“A few days before. Here, in my office.”

“Was there any particular reason?”

“Oh, I suppose it can't hurt to tell you, seeing as how you'll find out anyway. Gunther caused an uproar in one of his classes by suggesting that family dysfunction—and in particular, fatherless households—might be responsible for multigenerational crime among African Americans. The theory's hardly new—or limited to conservative thinkers. Moynihan was saying the same thing fifty years ago. But Gunther exacerbated the matter by ridiculing a student who demanded that he ‘check his privilege.' The episode was picked up by the
Moron
—excuse me, the
Maroon
—and precipitated a heated debate about racist attitudes on campus. I understand there were upward of a thousand comments on the newspaper's site. I made the modest suggestion that Gunther tender an apology to the student. Not because he was wrong, mind you. But in the interest of calming things down.”

“And did he apologize?”

“No. He wouldn't even discuss it with me.”

“That must have caused some friction between you.”

“I was . . . disappointed in his decision.”

Judging from his tone, furious was more likely.

“Were any of the
Maroon
comments of a threatening nature?”

“Not that I recall. Just the usual back-and-forth about victimization—these days, nearly everyone wants to tell you how disadvantaged they are—and anonymous name-calling. You're welcome to sift through it, though I doubt it will do you any good.”

I waded back into the conversation. “Back when we first met—at the party with Candace McIntyre. You said Westlake was responsible for two PhD students, one of whom left last year. Isn't that a very small number?”

“When I said earlier that Westlake was well-liked among his peers, I wasn't referring to his students, naturally.”

Naturally. “Could your department afford that? You must see training future academic leaders as part of your mission.”

Blum let out a studied breath. “You've probably heard the expression ‘those who can do, and those who can't teach.' Thanks in part to Gunther, we receive enough grant money to accommodate both types, and it's my job as chair to steer them toward the roles in which they can be most productive. To be perfectly frank, Gunther's talents did not extend to mentoring the next generation. Not that it mattered.”

“The current PhD candidate,” I pressed. “What's his name?”

“Adam. Adam Lecht.”

“Would you mind if we talked to him?”

“If he's willing, I can't stop you. In fact, he's the PhD candidate I'm supposed to be meeting in a few minutes. I believe I just heard him speaking to my assistant.”

A knock came on Blum's door, and I turned toward the sound.

And then a strange thing happened.

The newcomer took two steps into the room, turned on his heel, and fled.

TWENTY-FOUR

Of course, I didn't see him. Or the look on his face, which Hallie described as pure panic. But I could hear the alarm in his movements as he skittered back through the door and fled down the corridor, bumping loudly against a wall in his haste to get away. Blum immediately rose from his seat and shouted after him. “Lecht, what in the hell is going on? Are you ill? Come back here at once!” But the PhD student kept running until his footsteps were only a faint patter in the distance.

I raised my eyebrows quizzically at Hallie. In answer, she took my hand and traced a question mark on my palm to signal that she had no idea either.

Blum returned to his seat, grumbling. “The rudeness . . .”

“What was that all about?” Hallie asked.

“I haven't a clue,” Blum said. “Except that the fellow is due to defend his dissertation in two days' time. I've known some of them to get jittery beforehand, but not to such a degree.”

“Does he have any psychiatric problems that you know of?” I asked out of professional interest.

“Again, no idea,” Blum said. “But I suppose I shall have to find out now. God forbid the fellow should go off and drown himself in the Lake. Another headache to deal with,” he muttered to himself.

“Maybe it was me,” I said jokingly to Hallie after we had left Blum and were on our way across campus to the Gender Studies Department. “He wouldn't be the first person to worry about it rubbing off on them.”

“You're scary, but not that scary,” Hallie said. “And I don't think he noticed. I wouldn't swear to it, but I think it was seeing us with Blum.”

“I hate to think we cut such a poor picture as a couple.”

“Not that, silly. He recognized us.”

“That wouldn't surprise me if he watched the trial. Westlake was his graduate advisor. You'd expect him to follow what was happening. And our faces were all over the news.”

Hallie motioned for me to veer left onto another ice-bound walkway. “So what accounts for him bolting like a hare?”