Mary, Mary

around to look over her shoulder.
    “See here? And here? The openings are active. Things like ‘I am the one who killed you’ and ‘I watched you having dinner last night.’ They’re attention-grabbing, or at least they’re meant to be.”
    “Do you draw any specific conclusion from that?” I had some of my own, but I was here for her perspective.
    She bobbed her head side to side. “It’s engaging, but also less spontaneous. More crafted. This person is choosing her words carefully. It’s certainly not stream of consciousness.”
    “May I ask what else you see in the writing? This is very helpful, Professor Papadakis.”
    “Well, there’s a sense of . . . detachment, let’s say, from the character’s own violence.”
    She looked up at me, as if for approval. I couldn’t imagine she was usually this tentative. Her air was otherwise so earthy and grounded. “Except, maybe, when she talks about the children.”
    “Please, go on,” I said. “I’m interested in the children. What do you see, Professor?”
    “When she describes what she’s done, it’s very declarative. Lots of simple sentences, almost staccato sometimes. It could just be a style choice, but it might also be a kind of avoidance. I see it all the time when writers are afraid of their material. If this were a student, I would tell her to pull at those threads a bit more, let them unravel.” The professor shrugged. “Of course, I’m not a psychiatrist.”
    “Everything but, from the sound of it,” I told her. “I’m really impressed. You’ve added some clarity.”
    She dismissed the compliment with a wave of her hand.
    “Anything else I can do? Anything at all? Actually, this is fascinating. Morbid curiosity, I suppose.”
    I watched her face as she weighed her thoughts, then opted not to continue.
    “What is it?” I asked. “Please, just brainstorm. Don’t worry about it. No wrong answers.”
    She set down her red pencil. “Well, the question here is whether you’re reading a person or a character. In other words, is the detachment that I see coming from the writer’s subconscious, or is it just as crafted as the sentences themselves? It’s hard to know for sure. That’s the big puzzle here, isn’t it?”
    It was exactly the question I had asked myself several times. The professor wasn’t answering it for me, but she was certainly confirming that it was worth asking in the first place.
    Suddenly she laughed nervously. “I certainly hope you aren’t giving my assessment any critical role in your investigation. I would hate to misguide you. This is too important.”
    “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “This is just one of many factors we’re taking into account. It’s an incredible puzzle, though. Psychological, analytical, literary.”
    “You must hate having to run all over the place for these tiny crumbs of information. I know I would.”
    “Actually, this kind of interview is the easy part of the job,” I told her honestly.
    It was my next appointment that was going to be bad.

Chapter 44
    ARMED SECURITY STOPPED ME at the gate to the Lowenstein-Bell property in the Bel Air section of Beverly Hills. Two more private guards in the upper part of the driveway rechecked my ID. Finally, I was permitted to approach the house, which was on a winding road not far from the Bel Air Hotel, which I’d visited once, and found to be one of the most serene and beautiful spots I’d ever seen.
    When I rang, Michael Bell himself answered. The house was more glass than anything, and I saw him coming well before he reached me. His slow shuffle spoke volumes.
    It’s always a balancing act with family members left behind by a murder. The time you need the most information is the time they least want to talk about what has happened. I’ve never found a method that feels very good to me, or probably to the person I was there to interview.
    Mr. Bell didn’t look particularly Beverly Hills with his bushy blond beard, jeans, sandals, and faded plaid shirt. I could almost see him as a lumberjack, or an ex-member of Nirvana or Pearl Jam, if not for the ultramodern setting. I knew from the file that he and his wife had built their house just a few years ago.
    Michael Bell’s manner and voice had the dulled quality of someone in the early stages of grief, but he politely welcomed me inside. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked. “I know we have iced tea. Some sun tea, Agent Cross?”
    “Nothing, thanks,” I said.
    A