Forty-Eight X (13 page)

He held her tightly. “Wait.”

“I’ve talked to the police. I have no reason to doubt their investigation. He wasn’t murdered. He got involved with a prostitute and I guess—” Maggie again tried to pull away.

“He wouldn’t have gone to a prostitute.”

“Why not? He was lonely.”

“He wasn’t lonely. He was with me.”

Maggie stared at him. What did he mean?

And then Dr. Petersdorf said it more clearly. “He was…
with
… me.” His tone, his meaning was now unmistakable.

She knew what he meant. More horrors, she thought. She did not want to conceive of this horror, too.

“Are you saying my father was gay?”

“Is that what you want to think? No. We were friends. You know women have close women friends all the time. When men do, people think they’re gay. We were companions, friends. We became soul mates, if you will. It was something neither of us had ever had before in our lives. A good friend.

“I went to the police,” the physics professor went on. “And they didn’t understand either. But I told them, too. Your father would not have been with a call girl.”

“And what did they say?”

“The usual cop stuff. ‘Open-and-shut case,’ they said. Your father had the same gun in his hand that killed the prostitute. He had gunshot residue on his hands and a bullet wound from that same gun in his chest.”

“It sounds open and shut.”

“He would not have been with a call girl.”

“I have no reason to doubt the police.”

“I’m sorry,” Petersdorf continued. “This is a terrible time, I know. But do you really believe your father was some lonely, dirty old man? For godssake, he was a genius. He liked to talk science and politics. He liked fine wines. He loved my apple tarts.” The professor’s voice was firm now, rising, as if moving from a whisper to loud would convince her that his words were true. “Your father was very funny, too. He liked to sing and dance.”

Now, Maggie was beginning to doubt his story. Her father was not funny.

“He liked to do Gene Kelly in ‘Singing in the Rain,’” the professor went on. And he began imitating her father, dancing and singing around the pillars in the Stanford Quadrangle. “I’m singing in the rain. Just singing in the rain. What a glorious feelin’, I’m happy again. I’m laughing at clouds, so dark up above. The sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love.”

As a little girl, that was the one silly thing her father did with her, bouncing her about the house with her standing on his shoes while he danced and sang like Gene Kelly in that old Hollywood musical. But still, Maggie fought off this new absurdity. The circumstances of her father’s death were already painful enough. She didn’t need to hear more of the ridiculous. Murdered?

“Did he ever mention that anything was wrong?” Maggie asked.

“Nothing seemed wrong. And nothing was wrong—between us—except he was traveling a lot. But in the last few weeks, he was all of a sudden very… very obtuse.”

“What do you mean?”

“He talked about things that were inconsequential, silly. You know, he was always a very witty man. We would speak about substantive issues. But recently he’d bring up silly things like the weather in India of all places, or how long some of his favorite foods could last frozen. And why, in the days before he ends up dead in bed with a call girl, would he remove all his computers and documents from his office? Why would that be?”

“You knew about that?”

“Sure.”

“And the Lemuria Project?”

“The what?”

“The Lemuria Project. He didn’t talk about that?”

“In the last few months, for some reason, he became very close-mouthed about his work. That was not like him, either.”

Maggie closed her eyes for a moment. Her life was in a ruin, and this man was piling on debris.

“I have to go back to Boston and I really don’t believe—”

“All right. All right. I know you want to put this behind you—but just meet somebody for me.”

She was about to bury her father. All she wanted now was to heal. But she agreed to listen.
Let them throw one more spear
, she thought.
How much more could it hurt?

Maggie Wagner had her luggage in the trunk and the ticket for her flight back to Boston sitting in the glove compartment of her rental car. She agreed to meet Nathan Stumpf at a local restaurant near the airport.

“Have to run. Can’t miss my flight”—she had the words rehearsed. She wanted to be able to make a quick getaway from this lunacy.

Nathan Stumpf was a San Francisco detective hired by Professor Petersdorf to look into Julius Wagner’s death. He was a short, scrawny fellow in his midthirties, with early balding; white, scaly psoriatic elbows; crooked teeth; and a bit of a W.C. Fields vein-mapped bulbous nose, a skin disease called rosacea. He fancied that a tan would make him look healthy, and his face had come to look like café-au-lait-colored leather. The only virtue of appearance he brought to the table was his stylish dress—his wardrobe was rayon baggy pleated pants, rayon classic fifties-style embroidered bowling shirts, a Robert Mitchum jacket, and, since he thought shoes mattered, well-shined Bruno Maglis. He thought the shoes had a bizarre panache. They were just what O.J. Simpson wore when he killed Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.

Nate Stumpf lived in a third-floor walk-up just off the Haight, an area in San Francisco that was still emulating the 1960s. Although the area was gaining popularity among yuppies, it was nevertheless well populated with panhandlers and stoners, and tourists shopping in one of the many vintage stores, trying to achieve the retro look that Stumpf had perfected so well.

“Look,” Professor Petersdorf had explained to Maggie, “I made a lot of inquiries about private investigators and got a lot of recommendations. But they all wanted big retainers and had pricey hourly rates. Nothing I could afford on a college professor’s salary. Mr. Stumpf, well yes, he’s a bit sleazy and crude, but I think he’s sincere and he’s honest. I trust him, and he works cheap.”

Stumpf waved at her when she entered the restaurant, a small diner frequented by Haight-Ashbury locals just around the corner from the classic Red Vic Movie House and Jerry Garcia’s old digs. A sign in big bold red letters in the front window read G
OOD
F
OOD
. She already knew what she’d order. Nothing. No place that advertised “good food” ever served any. She wondered if Stumpf recognized her from clips of the funeral on television or because she was the only non-morbidly obese woman in the restaurant. He was sitting in a booth at the rear of the family-style, low-cost eatery and had already started lunch. With every step forward, she thought about turning back. But she was here already, so she sat down. The waitress placed a glass of ice water and a menu in front of her.

“Chicken potpie’s good,” Stumpf said, gravy dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “I’m Nate Stumpf,” he added, and held out his hand.

“I have to catch a plane,” she said, politely shaking his hand. She was already setting up her getaway.

“Open-and-shut case, they said.” He got right to the subject. “Uh-uh.”

Stumpf pushed a photo across to her. It was a photograph of her father in the torched hotel room. A woman was lying naked in bed. Her father, clothes charred, body blistered from the fire, had a gun in his hand and was lying with his head at the dead woman’s feet, his legs hanging over the bed.

“How did you get this?” Maggie asked.

“That’s my job.”

“And why is it that you and Professor Petersdorf think my father was murdered?”

“Did you read these?” Stumpf asked, pushing two autopsy reports to her.

“Yes, I did. I know how they both died. And—I have to catch a plane.”

“Listen, he was your father. If your father’s boyfriend cares more about him than you do—well, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Professor Petersdorf was not my father’s boyfriend. He was just a friend and I don’t think—”

“I’m ready to talk,” Stumpf interrupted with deliberate calm, “when you’re ready to listen.”

“Listen to what?”

Stumpf cleared his throat and took a drink of water. Then he got up and moved to her side of the booth, sitting next to her—close. She tried to edge herself farther away.
What is that awful odor?
she thought. It was a mix of a strong citrus cologne and sweat. Stumpf’s fancy shirts required dry cleaning. Dry cleaning was expensive. Looking good was what mattered, and as long as he looked good, Stumpf rarely cleaned his clothes. He picked up the photograph and held it right under her nose, pointing out the highlights.

“The hooker. See. She’s lying naked in bed. Your father’s lying there fully dressed. Now he either fucked her and he’s getting ready to leave, or he couldn’t fuck her and was getting ready to leave.”

This is my father
, Maggie thought.
For godssake, I don’t need to hear this about my father
. She wanted to get up to leave, but he was blocking the way. Stumpf took a noisy slurp from his Coke and got to the meat of his case.

“I read the medical report. I read the crime scene report. They do an autopsy, and the hooker has no come in her vagina and they find no condoms anywhere in the place. So maybe you’re thinking, he can’t get it up. I know hookers. They’re professionals. They’ll try to help a guy who can’t get it up. But your dad had no saliva on his dick. They check for that, too, you know. Doesn’t fit.”

Stumpf, who fancied himself a ladies’ man, put on his most charming smile. He popped a Mentos and seemed about to say “Ta da!” to celebrate his ingeniousness.

“So, that’s why you think somebody murdered my father. Because he couldn’t consummate an affair with a hooker and didn’t get a blow job?”

Stumpf shrugged. “That’s one thing. And another thing.” Stumpf tapped on a highlighted portion of the autopsy report. “Read that.”

Maggie read the report out loud. “Five-centimeter gaping occipital scalp laceration with underlying hematoma.”

“Picture this,” Nate went on. “Your dad is sitting in bed, puts a gun to his chest, and shoots himself. He falls back onto a mattress and cuts the back of his head. Come on, ‘open and shut’ my ass.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“I think somebody shot the hooker, coldcocked your dad, shot him, made it look like he did it himself, and then set the room on fire.”

Maggie looked at her watch. She would have to leave now if she was going to make her flight.
What was it?
she thought.
Her father frequented prostitutes? Her father was gay? Her father killed a prostitute? Her father committed suicide? Her father was murdered? What should I wish for?
she thought, with burning bile welling up in her belly.

“How do you find out the truth?” she asked.

“I ask a lot of questions. And sometimes I get rough. I charge $300 per hour.”

“Mr. Stumpf, I can’t afford that.”

Nate Stumpf leaned to the side a bit and stared at the young blonde. His eyes followed her curves from the arch of her neck to her knees. He took her hand and gently caressed her fingertips with his.

“I would accept other types of compensation,” he said with a wicked smile. His upper lip was sweating.

Maggie pulled her hand away, and shoved him off the seat, so she could get out. She stood and strode toward the door.

Nate yelled after her. “I meant credit. Credit or barter. What did ya think I meant?!”

Maggie was out the door, but before she got to her car, she thought again. What if he was right? There was no way she would or could pay three hundred dollars an hour, but he said credit or barter, didn’t he? She walked back into the diner. Stumpf was at the cashier’s counter paying the bill.

“Mr. Stumpf—”

The detective turned around. He smiled broadly, exhibiting his yellow, crooked teeth, and looked like he was salivating.

“I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong impression,” he said with all the charm he could muster. “I’m really quite a nice guy, once you get to know me.”

“Mr. Stumpf, my father bought a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy one year ago. It’s uncollectible on a suicide. If you prove my father was murdered, I’ll give it to you.”

“Half a mil?”

“That’s right.”

Nate Stumpf thought a moment about how he’d pay his bills on potential earnings, but at this moment he had no other potential.

“Well then,” he said, still leering at her, “you’ve hired yourself a private dick. I guess you won’t have that plane to catch. Let’s sit down again. I have questions to ask.”

“All right.”

“Can I change your mind about the potpie? They serve good food here.”

Maggie had no appetite. She was still second-guessing her decision.

B
esides the task of training his troops and refining their missions, Colonel McGraw was also directed to listen to a bunch of non-military folk who had very unique ideas on how to best utilize their special talents. While General Shell and his scientists chose what ideas would be presented, McGraw was generally given the leeway to choose if he wanted to buy into it and implement it.