The Door to December

went back, opened the door, and leaned into the office as Luther looked up from the microscope again.
     'Thought you had to pee,' the pathologist said. 'You've only been gone ten seconds.'
     'Peed right here in the hall,' Dan said.
     'Typical homicide detective.'
     'Listen, Luther, you're a libertarian?'
     'Well, yeah, but there's all kinds of libertarians. You've got your libertarian conservatives, your libertarian anarchists, and your basic orthodox libertarians. You've got libertarians who believe that we should—'
     'Luther, look at me, and you'll see the definition of "boredom."'
     'Then why'd you ask—'
     'I just wanted to know if you'd ever heard of a libertarian group called Freedom Now.'
     'Not that I remember.'
     'It's a political-action committee.'
     'Means nothing to me.'
     'You're pretty active in libertarian circles, aren't you? You would have heard of Freedom Now if they were really a bunch of movers and shakers, wouldn't you?'
     'Probably.'
     'Ernest Andrew Cooper.'
     'One of the three stiffs from Studio City,' Luther said.
     'Yeah. Ever hear of him before this?'
     'No.'
     'You sure?'
     'Yeah.'
     'He's supposed to be a big wheel in libertarian circles.'
     'Where?'
     'Here in L.A.
     'Well, he's not. Never heard of him before this.'
     'You sure?'
     'Of course I'm sure. Why're you acting like a homicide dick with me?'
     'I am a homicide dick.'
     'You're a dick, that's for sure,' Luther said, grinning. 'All the people you work with say so. Some of 'em use different words, but they all mean "dick."'
     'Dick, dick, dick ... are you fixated on that word or something? What's wrong with you, Luther? Are you lonely, maybe need a new boyfriend?'
     The pathologist laughed. He had a hearty laugh and a smile that made you want to smile back at him. Dan couldn't figure why such a good-natured, vital, optimistic, energetic man as Luther Williams had chosen to spend his working life with corpses.
    * * *
    Dr. Irmatrude Gelkenshettle, chairperson of the Department of Psychology at UCLA, had a corner office with lots of windows and a view of the campus. Now, at 4:45 in the afternoon, the short winter day was already fading, casting a muddy orange light like that of a fire settling into embers. Outside, the shadows were growing longer by the minute, and students were hurrying in deference to the evening chill, which was creeping in ahead of the darkness.
     Dan sat in a Danish-modern chair, while Dr. Gelkenshettle went around the desk to a spring-backed chair behind it. She was a short, stocky woman in her fifties. Her iron-gray hair was chopped without any sense of style, and although she had never been beautiful, her face was appealing and kind. She wore blue slacks and a man's white shirt, with pocket flaps and epaulets; the sleeves were rolled up, and she even wore a man's watch, a plain but dependable Timex on an expansion band. She radiated competence, efficiency, and intelligence.
     Though Dan had just met her, he felt that he knew her well, for his own Aunt Kay — his adoptive mother's sister, a career military officer in the WACs — was just like this woman. Dr. Gelkenshettle obviously chose her clothes for comfort, durability, and value. She didn't scorn those who were concerned about being in fashion; it had simply never occurred to her that fashion might be a consideration when it was time to replenish her wardrobe. Just like Aunt Kay. He even knew why she wore a man's watch. Aunt Kay had one too, because the face was larger than that on a woman's watch, and the numerals were easier to read.
     At first he had been taken aback by her. She hadn't been his idea of the head of a major university psychology department. But then he had noticed that on one full shelf of the bookcase behind her desk were more than twenty volumes that bore her name on their spines.
     'Doctor Gelkenshettle—'
     She held up a hand, interrupting him. 'The name's impossible. The only people who call me Doctor Gelkenshettle are students, those colleagues whom I loathe, my auto mechanic — because you've got to keep those guys at a distance or they'll charge you a year's salary for a tune-up — and strangers. We're strangers, or the next thing to it, but we're also