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by Bluewolf -------- Blair Sandburg hummed softly to himself as he locked his car and headed for the university buildings, not really caring that he had been forced to park about as far from the place as it was possible to be and still be inside the grounds. For once it was a beautiful day, the sun was shining from a cloudless sky, there was just enough breeze to be pleasant, and all was right with his world. He turned a corner and bumped into someone; taking an automatic step backwards, he said, "Sorry, man! I wasn't paying -- Oh my god! Bob! What happened to you?" Bob Gemmell swayed slightly. "Mr. Sandburg," he acknowledged. His face was set in the unfriendly scowl that Blair remembered, but was there just a touch of appeal, of need in his eyes? Blair repeated, "What on earth happened to you?" -- because the football player's face was badly bruised, and Blair had been aware of an ever-so-soft gasp that he could now identify as pain as their bodies made contact. "I had a bit of an accident at practice last night," Gemmell said, his voice off-hand. "Why don't I believe that?" Blair murmured. "Come on, man. You can tell me. Who did this to you?" "I had an accident -- a clumsy tackle," Gemmell repeated. "Bob, I work with a cop. I know the marks of a deliberate assault, and that's what your face looks like -- those are 'walked into a door' bruises. Is there something I can do?" His voice was softly encouraging. Gemmell shook his head. "There's nothing anyone can do," he said, abruptly dropping his habitual attitude and allowing a hopeless note to sound in his voice. "Bob, victims of abuse can only be victims if they let themselves be victimized." "There's nobody who can help me," Gemmell said dully. "That's not true. There's Doctor Stoddard here on campus and all the students who were on that bus -- they all appreciate what you did climbing out of that hole -- and don't try telling me it wasn't far more dangerous than you led us to believe. Those rocks were wet, man, and once I got out I could see that the ground around the edge of the hole was far from solid -- and I'm pretty damn sure I wasn't the only one who saw that. Chancellor Konoe knows what you did, and she's on your side. And then there's me. My partner's a cop. Believe me, we both appreciate what you did; so does our boss at the PD. That puts the law on your side. If there's anything the law can do, Jim and Simon will do it." Gemmell shook his head. "The trouble is, there's nothing to do anything about." Blair looked at him for some moments, then said, "Come on. If you don't believe me, come with me to see Doctor Stoddard. You can at least tell us what the problem is. Let us decide if something can be done to help you. Yes, I know you think you're old enough to make your own decisions, and a lot of the time I'd agree with that, but you don't have the experience in life that we have." He knew, when Gemmell nodded, that the student was desperate for some sort of help, and only the habit of years had made him resist accepting it as soon as it was offered.
"Come in!" There was a note in Stoddard's voice that Blair recognized; it was the sound of a man who was stressed out by something, probably too many carelessly done essays, and who was more than happy to be interrupted, even for a few minutes. Pity this was an interruption that was probably going to add to his stress, albeit in a different way. He opened the office door and went in, Gemmell behind him. "Blair! How can I help you?" "Not me, Doctor." Considering the circumstances, and in the presence of the student, Blair, normally the most informal of men, kept his address formal; he had begun to learn that there were times when informality was inappropriate, and this certainly seemed to be one such occasion. "It's Bob." He glanced back, saw that Gemmell was apparently trying to hide behind him, and stepped to the side. "What's the pro--" Stoddard began, and stopped short, mouth still open as he took in the student's appearance. "You were attacked." There was no doubt in his voice. He too could recognize the bruises as something deliberately inflicted. "Bob seems to feel there's nothing anyone can do to help him," Blair went on. Stoddard's response was instant. "Bob, nobody has the right to assault you. Nobody. There's always something someone can do." Gemmell looked helplessly at the older man, who glanced at Blair and gestured with a barely perceptible jerk of his head towards a chair beside the window. Blair nodded his acknowledgment of the silent order and crossed to sit in the chair, deliberately staying in the background. For the moment this was Stoddard's responsibility; it was not Blair's place to interrupt. Equally, however, because of his contacts with the PD, it was a good idea for him to remain, to hear what Gemmell said, and Stoddard clearly realized that. "Have a seat, Bob." Stoddard indicated the visitor's chair beside his desk. "Was it on campus?" Stoddard went on as Gemmell sat very cautiously, his movements showing clearly that the damage was not just to his face, the question carefully worded so that all the student needed to do was nod or shake his head; Gemmell was too clearly close to his breaking point, driven there, Blair suspected, by the kindness, the sympathy, he had been shown in the last few minutes. Gemmell shook his head, and Stoddard made a face; off campus it was more likely to be a matter for the police. "Was it bullying? Another student?" Another head shake. "Were you mugged?" "No." It was little more than a whisper. Stoddard stiffened, and Blair realized that the suspicion beginning to dawn on him was also dawning on Stoddard. If Bob hadn't been mugged or attacked by another student or on campus... You're playing in an important game tomorrow... The memory of those words from a man whose temper was clearly on a hair trigger was enough to rekindle the anger Blair had felt when he heard them. "Your father?" Stoddard asked slowly, almost reluctantly. For a long moment there was no response, then Gemmell nodded. "But why?" Stoddard asked. Gemmell stared at the floor for a minute, clearly fighting to maintain control of his voice. "He found a packet of pills in my pocket, thought they were Ecstasy." "Why the devil was he going through your pockets?" Stoddard asked incredulously. "He does that occasionally, if I'm going out... I think he's checking to see if I have any condoms, as if I'd ever have the chance to use them. The only time I'm allowed out of the house is for school, football practice, games or to go climbing." Suddenly it seemed almost as if a dam had broken; a dam of repression, of control, even one of long-felt resentment. "When he found them, he said he'd teach me to spoil my chances of a career in football.... But they weren't mine! I don't do drugs! I don't know what they were, I don't know that they were Ecstasy tablets or how they got into my pocket, Professor, but they weren't mine! Only he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't believe me. He thought I'd be stupid enough to leave something like that in my pocket when I know he checks them!" He fell silent for a moment then went on. "He doesn't give me any sort of allowance, so I couldn't have bought drugs even if I wanted to and he knew that, so then he accused me of stealing them or stealing the money to buy them." His voice choked on a sob, then he forced out, "I'm not a thief, Professor. I didn't... I don't know what to do, what to say, to convince him. I'm nearly twenty, and he still doesn't know me, still thinks I'd steal, and lie, and take drugs... " Stoddard gave the young man some moments to regain control. "And you've no idea how these tablets came to be in your pocket? The packet wasn't something you saw lying somewhere and picked up?" "No." "Then someone must have put them there deliberately." Gemmell stared at him. "I... Professor, I know I've given you a hard time in class -- I haven't given you any reason to believe me -- and you... do." The word was clipped off, as if he had just managed to utter it before breaking down. "Bob, I don't deny that you've been the class pest, but I can see past that. You saved my life. It would have been very easy for you to have left me on the road that day and run for shelter and nobody would have blamed you for panicking if you had, especially after Mr. Sandburg came back to help as well. But you stuck with me and got me up that road -- and I was furious that your father refused to give you any sort of credit for all you did in those two days. Unfortunately, I could also see that all he saw was that it might interfere with your performance in a game, and that if I'd said anything more to him it was just going to irritate him, so I let it go. "I'm sorry now that I did. "But even without that, even discounting gratitude, I think I have more sense than to assume that someone whose who's as involved in sports -- and whose hobby is extreme climbing -- is going to mess up his future career or risk his safety by taking 'recreational' drugs." "Thanks." It was a whisper so soft that Stoddard could barely hear it. Again Stoddard gave the young man time to pull his tenuous control tighter, then he said, "Have you any idea who might have planted that packet in your pocket?" Gemmell shook his head. "No. I'm not liked, I know that, though it hasn't been so bad recently -- but I didn't think anyone hated me enough to... to... " His voice broke again. "Where is the packet now?" Blair asked quietly. Gemmell took a deep breath -- a way to regain self-control that he remembered from when he had spoken to Jim Ellison some months previously. "Dad flushed the tablets down the toilet." "So we can't even check whether they actually were Ecstasy," Blair muttered. "You see now why nobody can do anything?" Gemmell asked. "There's no proof of anything, and I... I'd have to accuse him, and... He's not much of a father, but he is my Dad." "Well, we could get the police to have a quiet word with him," Stoddard said, "or I could go and see him, saying I'm concerned about your having been mugged -- No," he added before Gemmell had the chance to speak -- "I wouldn't let him know I knew he did it. It might make him think twice about doing anything like that again, though, if he realizes there are people watching out for your welfare." "He's never actually hit me before," Gemmell offered. "It was just that he was so angry." "He might have had the right to smack you for something you'd done when you were a child," Stoddard said, "but he has no right to beat you black and blue now, especially for something you didn't do. And he should certainly have listened to what you had to say." Blair said slowly, "You know, Bob... This happened yesterday?" "Yes." "Then maybe it wasn't something deliberately aimed at you. Several days ago, I was in the library when a couple of the jocks came in, and man, were they complaining -- loud and long! -- until Mr. Inglis reminded them it was a library, people were trying to study, and told them to shut up or get out. Nobody who was in there could have missed hearing what it was all about. Do you remember what happened the day before yesterday?" Gemmell looked puzzled for a moment, then said, "Coach Pearce gave us a lecture on drugs, then did a spot check -- called out a dozen guys at random, made them turn out their bags, their pockets and open their gym lockers... but they were all clean. Everyone in the class was annoyed about it -- and the ones who were checked were the most pissed off." "But what if someone in the room wasn't clean?" Blair went on. "He might have slipped his stash into someone else's pocket, then he'd seem clean if he was called out -- and he wouldn't care that the other guy would have seemed not to be, if he was checked. Probably realized he wouldn't get it back -- how could he without actually admitting what he'd done and asking for it -- but felt that was less important than checking out clean. And of course he'd join in the chorus of 'It isn't fair!' -- wouldn't he?" "You think that was it? And just chance that I was the fall guy?" "It seems likely," Stoddard agreed. "But Bob, I think I'll still have that word with your father." "Thanks." "Bob -- what did your Mom have to say about this?" Blair asked. "She's dead," Gemmell said quietly. "She died when I was eight." "Oh. Sorry, man." Gemmell shrugged. "You couldn't have known. And Dad -- he was okay then, or seemed to be. He didn't spend much time with us, though he'd always tried to get us interested in sports; it was a couple of years later, after he was injured... that was when he got so obsessed about it." His gaze dropped to the floor as if the pattern on the carpet was the most compelling thing he had seen all day. His listeners looked at one another, each knowing the other must feel the same uncertainty. Was that the whole truth, or was the young man trying to defend, at least in part, a man whose behavior was basically indefensible? "What classes do you have today?" Stoddard asked. "I was supposed to be in the gym at nine. I really don't feel up to it but I can't just stay home. The mood Dad was in, he'd have killed me for giving in to a few aches. Then there's your anthro class in the afternoon." "Well, the anthro class is easy enough, you just have to sit there and listen, maybe join in the discussion if you want, but I agree, there's no way you could go to the gym and I'm glad you had the sense to realize that. I'll let Pearce know you were attacked by someone -- I won't say who. After the anthro class, I'll take you home and have that word with your father." "Thanks." "You can come to the library with me for the rest of this morning, if you want," Blair invited, careful to keep his voice briskly matter-of-fact. Gemmell looked at him, gratitude in his eyes, but all he said was an off-hand, "Thanks." Stoddard watched them leave. Once the door was safely shut he muttered some words -- in a language that Blair at least would have recognized -- about his hopes for Gemmell Senior's eventual destination, then reached for the phone. He doubted that he would accomplish much with Gemmell senior, a man he had disliked on sight, but he could at least get young Bob off the hook with Pearce.
Gemmell's control was tested once again in the afternoon by the obvious sympathy directed his way by the rest of the anthro students, though they accepted his lie about a mugging readily enough -- his original claim of a clumsy tackle would not, he had realized, work in a class that contained three other members of the team; he had been taken by surprise by Blair's question, and had blurted out the first thing that occurred to him. There had been time since then for him to realize that a mugging was the most realistic explanation for his many bruises. Because his father had never allowed him to attend any of Rainier's purely recreational functions he had never quite realized just how readily he would have been accepted by the other students if he had only given them the chance -- especially since they had all so narrowly escaped with their lives after the field trip to Professor Meechan's dig. Stoddard wisely allowed the class several minutes to tell Gemmell how sorry they were that he'd been so badly hurt, then he called them back to business, and began his lecture.
In the car on their way to Gemmell's home, Bob said suddenly, "Mr. Sandburg really knows what he's talking about, doesn't he." It wasn't a question. Stoddard wondered for a moment what Blair had said to Bob after they went to the library, but all he said was, "Yes. He's probably the best student I ever had." "So why did he make up all that stuff about sentinels?" "The historical facts were genuine -- he got those from a book written over a century ago by a Victorian explorer called Burton; and he amassed a lot of information about tribal sentinels over several expeditions, though he couldn't find any tribe that would admit to actually having one at the time we were there," Stoddard replied. "What he wrote was never actually meant for publication. It was... mmm... how he would have liked things to be, written in the form of a thesis. He never submitted it to the university, never intended to. Unfortunately, someone he trusted thought it was his genuine thesis and without his knowledge sent it to a publisher who also assumed it was fact." "Oh." "And because he had too much integrity to allow it to be published..." Stoddard allowed Gemmell to finish the sentence for himself. He stopped his car on the street outside Gemmell's home and followed the student to the front door. Bob unlocked the door. "Come in, Professor," he said quietly, then continued, "Dad will probably be in here." He opened an inside door. The older Gemmell was indeed there, sitting in a chair beside the fire. He laid down his paper as he turned, and came to his feet, a scowl on his face. "What the devil...!" "I'm afraid Bob's been mugged, Mr. Gemmell," Stoddard said, smoothly appearing to assume that the man he had come to see was reacting to the bruises on his son's face. "He couldn't tell us who was responsible. "Of course, the university authorities will do everything possible to find out who attacked Bob. We can't and won't tolerate our students being assaulted. "Bob is stiff and sore from the assault, so I brought him home after his class with me this afternoon." The older Gemmell glared at his son. Even if Stoddard had believed his own words he would have recognized the anger in the man's eyes -- anger clearly directed at Bob. Then Gemmell turned to Stoddard. "All right, you've brought him home. Now get out. I don't want any weakling academics in my house. If I had my way he wouldn't be taking any fucking academic classes -- they just interfere with the important things he should be doing. He'll never make a professional football player unless he concentrates on that." "Mr. Gemmell, doesn't it occur to you that football is a short career? That some sort of academic qualification would be useful for Bob to fall back on once he's too old to play football?" "If he were good enough he'd be in demand as a coach. I'd have been in demand as a coach if it hadn't been for my injury. And what real man would want to do anything else? He'll be good enough," he added with another scowl, one that said, you'd better be! directed at his son. "A real man would have walked home even after being mugged." Bob glanced at Stoddard. "Professor Stoddard -- thanks for bringing me home," he said. The unspoken message was clear. "You don't need to thank a fucking weakling for anything," the older Gemmell growled. Pulling himself to his full height, Stoddard looked at him, clearly unintimidated. "Mr. Gemmell, politeness never hurt anyone." "I won't have my son turned into a fucking fag!" "Oh, I don't think that's likely," Stoddard murmured. Then his voice sharpened. "No doubt you'll be gratified to hear that Bob is the most disruptive student it's been my misfortune to encounter in my entire career, but unfortunately someone has to educate the sports students so that they can get the necessary academic credit to let them continue at Rainier." "Oh." The comment seemed to have taken the wind out of the man's sails. "And the only reason I brought him home was common humanity. I wouldn't expect a dog to walk home after a beating like the one he obviously received. If you think getting a lift home is weakening Bob, blame me for it, not him." Stoddard glanced at Bob, noting the slightly hurt look in his eyes, and deliberately winked. "See him out, Bob," Gemmell senior ordered as he returned to his seat. In the hallway, Stoddard muttered, "Sorry, Bob. I don't think that helped. -- Come and see me tomorrow morning, first thing." The young man nodded. "Okay, Professor." Outside, Stoddard paused for a moment, staring at the closed door, then returned to his car. He could only hope that his final comment to the older man had improved the way Gemmell would treat Bob that night; but somehow he couldn't help feeling that he was deserting the young man.
Blair beat his partner home, but not by much; he had just started getting dinner ready when the door opened and Jim walked in. With the ease of long practice, he tossed his keys into the basket then hung up his coat without breaking stride, and went straight to Blair. They exchanged a long kiss. "So how was your day, Chief?" "Mixed. Remember Bob Gemmell?" "Yeah." "His father beat him up last night." "What?" As Blair explained, Jim's frown intensified. "...so Eli's planning on taking Bob home, having a word with Gemmell senior. We're hoping that it won't happen again if the man realizes someone is watching out for Bob." "And unless Bob himself reports it, there's nothing I can do," Jim muttered. "And we can't even do anything about the Ecstasy in Bob's pocket -- if that's what it was -- because we've no proof it ever existed," Blair finished. "I know, man -- it sucks, it really does." Then he chuckled. "You know, though, Eli's attitude... it reminds me... " "Yes?" "He's always tended to have a... favorite isn't exactly the word, because he never did play favorites. A protege? Yeah, that's probably the best word. It wasn't easy either, being his protege usually meant a lot of hard work keeping up with his expectations." "You were one? You said once he was your mentor." "Yeah. He hasn't had one since he started at Rainier this year -- I have no idea what it is he's looking for, whether he actually looks for someone to 'adopt', or if he just sees something, some potential, that makes him take someone under his wing, so to speak -- but I think he's found one now." "Bob?" "Uh huh. Unlikely though that might seem. And if I'm right -- old man Gemmell had better watch out." He turned and carried on preparing dinner. After eating and washing up, they sat on the couch, snuggled comfortably together while they watched TV. "How was your day?" Blair asked lazily, knowing that Jim had intended spending the day at his desk. "Boring," Jim replied. "A couple more witnesses came in to give a statement about the break-in at Brewster's on Monday night, but you know what it can be like -- you end up wondering if the witnesses all actually saw the same heist.. That makes eight statements now, and damned if I can get any corroborating details out of them. Will you be coming in tomorrow? Yes?" as Blair nodded. "Then I'd welcome your comments on them." Blair nodded again, changing the gesture until he was rubbing his head against Jim's shoulder. Jim chuckled. "I thought I'm the one with a cat for a spirit guide," he said. "Wolves don't rub up against someone like that." "Mine does," Blair growled. Jim looked at his guide for a long moment. "No," he said. "No wolf does that. Blair does, though, and I love it." He lowered his head and took possession of Blair's mouth, tongue wandering round the so-familiar territory, meeting and caressing its mate. Not so long ago that would have been the signal for an immediate shift to the bedroom; now they found that delaying, allowing anticipation to build as they kissed and kissed again, gave them even greater pleasure. Ten minutes later, neither man knew nor cared when the television program changed to a show they both detested.
Stoddard went in to Rainier early the next morning, and spent the time before his first class compiling questions for a pop quiz for the freshmen whose essays had so irritated him the previous day; in all fairness, he expected most of them to get a reasonable grade, but he wanted to teach the others a short, sharp lesson in concentration, thought and not jumping to easy conclusions. He was mildly amused to realize that he himself was failing to concentrate fully on what he was doing; although he knew he could not expect Bob Gemmell to appear before 9 am at the earliest, half of his attention was aimed at the door. It was fortunate that he knew his material so well, he reflected, as he deliberately inserted a question designed to trap the unwary into betraying how little attention they had paid to the recent lecture -- the one the essay had been based on. Oh, if only they were all as interested in the subject as his second-year class! He was seriously worried about the young man for whom he was waiting. It was quite clear to him now that Bob's father had been mentally abusing his son for nearly ten years, even though Bob himself probably didn't recognize that the pressure to make a career out of football was a form of abuse. This might have been the first time his father had actually assaulted him; but there was always a first time for physical assault, and once that began in a domestic situation, it could only escalate. His mind went back some eighteen years to a student, slightly older at the time than Bob, who had appeared one day sporting a black eye. She had claimed it as an accident, but a few weeks later her face had again been bruised -- at which point she had admitted to him that her husband had been hitting her. She had accepted his apologies the first time, given him a second chance, even a third... but after the third occasion, she left the man and divorced him. It had taken her a long time to trust again... but over the years since then, Lesley Quinn had learned to trust him, first as her teacher, then as a colleague on expeditions, and now, finally, as her husband. The previous evening, she had not hesitated to tell him that they must do something to help Bob. Stoddard didn't think the man would have hit his son again after he left -- the trigger did appear to have been anger at the thought that Bob would take drugs. It was fairly certain though that the man would give Bob no privacy at all now that the suspicion had been planted in his mind... But how poorly the man knew his son; for as little as he had known of the young man before he knew the lad's problems, even when Bob had been nothing more than the class nuisance Stoddard -- as he had told Bob -- would not have pegged him as someone who would take drugs. Gemmell arrived just before 9. Stoddard looked at him carefully. Gone was the cocky, to hell with the world attitude; Bob's attitude was, rather, a hopeless one of 'why bother?' Was it just that Bob now trusted him enough to drop his shields, or had his father finally gone too far and broken the lad's spirit? "Did I make things worse for you?" Stoddard asked quietly. Bob shook his head. "No. What you said... He was proud of that. Proud to hear you considered me disruptive -- 'The sign of someone who will make his mark on the world', he said. It made last night easier. But it showed me something, too, something I've known for a long time but only really accepted last night." He sank into the chair beside the desk. "What am I going to do, Professor? I don't want the future he has mapped out for me, but I don't have the strength Danny had either." "From what you said, Danny didn't walk out, he was thrown out." "Yes, but he had the strength to rebel, to take art classes instead of sports. He had to know Dad would find out. I just gave in, did what Dad wanted." "Bob, there are those who would argue that by pushing aside your own wishes, by trying to do what your father wanted, you've been showing more strength than Danny did." Bob looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said, "But at least Danny had another skill. I don't." "Apart from climbing. Have you ever considered becoming a wilderness guide? You do extreme climbing, so ordinary climbing, even at a difficult level, should be relatively easy for you. You've already got a skill you could fall back on if you had to." Neither seemed to realize that they were talking as if Bob had positively decided to walk away from his father's plans for him. "Yes, but that would mean taking responsibility for other people's lives, and I don't think I want that. What I'd really like to do... " Bob hesitated. "Yes?" "I enjoy your lectures, Professor. You probably didn't realize it but I loved it at the dig. Even when I asked what good it was, digging up things twenty thousand years old -- it wasn't just an awkward question though it sounded that way, I really wanted to know. Professor Meechan's answer didn't tell me much -- but you covered a lot of the whys in your lectures since. "Yesterday, when Mr. Sandburg took me to the library... I think he was probably just trying to keep my mind off things, but instead of getting on with what he'd gone to the library to study, he told me so much about what he was working on, about small societies inside bigger ones and how some of them, like the police, were closed societies with their own... well, rules and attitudes and loyaltes. It was really interesting." Stoddard grinned. "Actually, sometimes I think Blair could talk about a telephone directory and make it sound like a fascinating research possibility." He looked thoughtfully at the student. "You mean you'd like to make a career out of anthropology?" "Yes. But how can I? I'm totally dependent on Dad." "Bob, I could tell you about a certain 16-year-old who was bright enough to be accepted as a student here about fourteen, fifteen years ago. No father, and his mother didn't seem to have money. If she did, she didn't use it to support him. At his age, of course, he was given university accommodation. Other than that... He got student loans, worked weekends and holidays to supplement the loans -- he never admitted it but from something he said once I think he stocked supermarket shelves for three hours a night as well. He wrote up a report on his first field trip -- 'A Beginner's Perspective' -- that was accepted by a reputable magazine and established him as a potential contributor to it; and he continued contributing to it on a reasonably regular basis for close on ten years. He only stopped when his studies led him into a field where publishing articles seemed to be inadvisable." "Oh." Bob thought for a minute. "Mr. Sandburg?" Stoddard nodded. "He seems to be one of those lucky people who can get by on about three or four hours sleep a night. "Granted, his mother supported -- or at least accepted -- his decision to come to Rainier. You have a parent who actively discourages education, seeing it only as an unavoidable evil. He didn't. I'm not even saying you should actively rebel, drop football and change to a major in anthropology. "I'm just pointing out that you don't have to accept being totally dependent on your father. And at your age, he couldn't accuse anyone of -- well, coercing you into defying his authority. You're over eighteen -- as you told me once, you don't have to do what anyone tells you." Bob looked at the older man for a long time. "Professor -- would I be able to change to anthropology as a major?" "It would ultimately be my decision as to whether I accepted you, and I'm prepared to give you the chance. It would mean a lot of hard work, though; you'd have quite a bit to catch up." "Professor, I paid a lot more attention in your classes than you think I did. But... if I tell Dad I don't want to continue with football, would you come with me? I... I don't think I have the nerve to stand up to him on my own." "If you want -- but be sure you really do want to do this. Once you've dropped out of the football program you won't be able to get back into it." "I'm sure." "All right. We'll go and see him tonight. I expect, though, that he'll do what he did with Danny, and throw you out. Are you prepared for that?" Bob swallowed, and nodded. "I'll make sure he gives you enough time to pack some clothes, at least, even if I have to do it by arguing with him so that you can sneak off and get them; and you can come home with me. My wife won't mind." He grinned. "She'd be more likely to scold me if I didn't take you home."
Bob opened the living room door, took two steps into the room and stopped. Standing behind him, Stoddard saw a bloodstained body lying on the floor. He laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Dad!" Gemmell tried to pull away from Stoddard, but the older man gripped his shoulder painfully hard. "No, Bob. Don't touch anything." He moved forward and looked down at the body. Over the years he had seen death several times. There was no doubt in his mind that this was a body. "Bob -- call 911. And then --" He pulled out his wallet, searched through it and picked out a card -- "Then call Mr. Sandburg." He gave Gemmell the card. Gemmell nodded and retreated to the hallway; Stoddard heard him on the phone as he studied the scene. There were bloodstains spattered around much of the room; two chairs were overturned, and a heavier chair and a table looked as if they had been pushed violently away from their usual position. The dead man clearly hadn't died without a struggle. Then he joined Bob in the hallway as he finished the first call and dialed Blair's number. "Blair Sandburg." "Mr. Sandburg... this is Bob Gemmell. Professor Stoddard said to phone you. Someone... someone has killed my Dad." His voice trembled. "Have you called it in officially? Through 911?" "Yes." "All right. Detective Ellison and I will be there as soon as possible. What's the address?" Gemmell gave it and hung up. He looked at Stoddard. "This is going to sound terrible, Professor... It was a shock, walking in and seeing him like that... but all I can think of is that I don't have to worry about what he wanted any more. I'm really free now. Really free to live my own life."
Blair rang off, then sat for a moment just staring at the phone in his hand. "Chief? What's the problem?" "You weren't listening?" Jim Ellison shook his head. "I was concentrating on this report, but I heard you say the two of us would be 'there' as soon as possible." "Bob Gemmell's father has been killed." "Killed. You mean murdered?" "Professor Stoddard seems to be there as well -- he was the one who told Bob to call us. They've called 911 too, but --" "But homicide is too likely to look first at the other people in the house for the killer," Jim finished. "Even if the only other person living in the house is a nineteen-year-old boy." "Has he been at Rainier all day?" Jim asked. "How do I know? I was here, wasn't I?" Blair growled as Jim tossed him his coat.
They arrived only a few minutes after the police car. As they went up the drive to the door, Jim felt in his pocket for his ID, since the cop standing guard at the door wasn't one he recognized. He waved the ID at the man. "Detective Ellison, Major Crime; my partner, Blair Sandburg." In the hallway, they found Bob being questioned by Lt. Wilmot from Homicide while Stoddard hovered almost protectively nearby. Jim went straight forward, nodding a greeting to Wilmot -- a man he privately considered was an insensitive jerk whose solve rate was reasonably good but who plunged headlong into his cases with no regard whatsoever for the feelings of the family of the murdered victim. "Ellison? What are you doing here?" "Mr. Gemmel called 911, then he called us because we know him and Sandburg had met his father." Wilmot grunted. "This seems to be a straightforward murder inquiry. I have enough problems with this busybody --" he indicated Stoddard -- "interfering." Ignoring the implication that in Wilmot's opinion Bob was the most likely suspect, Jim merely said, "Doctor Stoddard has a personal interest here, Wilmot. Bob Gemmell is one of his students." "So he said." "That makes him, in effect, Bob's guardian, at least for the moment." That was maybe pushing the point with a nineteen-year-old, but what the hell. Jim had no intention of letting Bob suffer Wilmot's usual insensitivity without protest. "Is Forensics here yet? No? Mind if I take a look?" Wilmot pointed to the living room, the door of which was standing open. "The body is in there." The man's voice was as flatly, brutally blunt as his words. Bob winced; he might not be feeling much grief, but he had experienced a considerable shock when he walked in and found the bloodstained body, and he was still clearly shaken. Stoddard dropped an encouraging hand onto the student's shoulder. Jim crossed to the door. Already acutely aware of the smell of blood, he cautiously filtered it out. As he reached the doorway, Blair joined him. "Oh, man!" Blair muttered as he registered the amount of blood. Jim stopped just inside the room and looked around carefully -- something that he knew Wilmot hadn't had the time to do. He had probably taken one look then started questioning the dead man's obviously shaken son. "He looks as if he put up a fight," Blair commented, carefully avoiding looking directly at the body but unable to avoid seeing the blood spattered all around. Jim nodded absently. "There are some faint smells in here that seem a little out of place," he murmured. "Someone's been here recently -- probably this morning -- who uses something -- possibly aftershave -- with an unusual scent. Actually quite a pleasant scent at this intensity. The dead man isn't using aftershave, and I didn't notice any on Bob -- from what you said about old man Gemmell, I'd guess he considered aftershave was something 'real men' wouldn't use." "The killer?" "Perhaps." He went down on one knee beside the body and held one hand close to it, concentrating on the body temperature. I don't think he's been dead more than -- oh, three to four hours." "And that loses Wilmot his obvious suspect, since Bob has probably been at Rainier all afternoon." Blair was careful to talk quietly. "Can you find out?" Blair nodded and walked back into the hallway. Ignoring the lieutenant still snapping questions at Bob, he crossed to Stoddard and asked softly. "Eli -- can you establish where Bob was for most of today?" Stoddard looked sharply at him. "Then it isn't my imagination? This idiot thinks Bob might have killed his father?" "It's his usual method -- be nasty to the family in the hope that one will crack and own up. Surprising how often it works, too. It's horrifying how many people are killed by one of their relatives." "Hmm. Well, Bob's been with me all day -- came in to Rainier about 9, sat in on all my lectures during the morning so there are plenty of independent witnesses, and we had a meeting with Chancellor Konoe just after lunch that went on till about three -- after what happened on Tuesday night, Bob had finally decided to rebel, drop football and follow his own wishes, and we were discussing his options. Then I had some work to finish and he sat in my office with a book while I did it. We were there till just after four." "And I don't suppose you've been asked for a statement yet?" "No. Until Ellison arrived, I don't think it even occurred to... Wilmot? to find out who I am, other than someone from Rainier who brought Bob home. He targeted Bob right away -- I've tried to keep him from getting too intimidating -- how insensitive is it possible for someone to get? I haven't had much success though." Blair grunted and crossed to the homicide lieutenant. "Lt. Wilmot -- Bob looks pretty shattered. He's still recovering from being mugged a couple of days ago. Why not give him a break and take a statement from Doctor Stoddard? He was here too when the body was discovered, after all." Wilmot looked at him then swung round to stare at Stoddard, having apparently dismissed him as little more than an interfering busybody. "Doctor Stoddard?" There was an ungracious note in his voice. "Head of Anthropology at Rainier," Stoddard identified himself for the second time, only this time Wilmot was listening. "Bob is one of my second year students. As Mr. Sandburg said, he was mugged on Tuesday, so I brought him home last night and tonight." The door opened, and Dan Wolfe entered with Serena and half a dozen men Blair didn't know by name with him, although a couple of the faces were familiar. "Hello, Dan, Serena," he greeted the two he did know. "Blair. If you're here, that means Jim is too?" Blair indicated the living room door. "He's in there." Wolfe nodded, glanced at the homicide cop, said, "Hello, Dick," and followed Serena into the living room. Blair joined Bob as Wilmot turned his attention back to Stoddard. "You brought young Gemmell home, you said. Did you see him at Rainier during the day?" "Yes. He arrived just before 9. Because he's still very stiff from being mugged, he wasn't able to participate in football practice, so as well as attending his own anthropology class, he sat in on a first year class during the morning. In the afternoon, he had a meeting with Chancellor Konoe, who is understandably extremely concerned that one of our students was assaulted, which I also attended." "Oh. So he was with you all day?" "Yes." "Did he seem agitated at all?" "No." "Mr. Sandburg," Bob whispered, "does that cop think I killed Dad?" Damn. Blair had hoped Bob wouldn't realize that. "I'm afraid so," Blair murmured, "but Forensics will soon prove that he was killed while you were at Rainier." "You think?" "Jim figures he was killed not more than four hours ago, and it shouldn't take Forensics long to confirm that." Jim came out of the living room and joined them. "Bob, do you have anywhere you can go tonight?" "Go?" Bob looked puzzled. "Well, under the circumstances, I don't suppose you'll want to stay here." His voice was gentle. "Oh. No, not really... but there isn't anywhere else I can go." "No relatives?" Bob shook his head. "None that I can contact. I have an aunt somewhere -- my mother's sister -- but Dad lost touch with Mom's relatives after she died. There's my brother, of course, but I don't know where he is either." Jim had made no attempt to keep his voice down, and Bob had unconsciously raised his voice to a normal level as well. Stoddard glanced over. "I already told you, Bob, you're coming home with me, and you can stay as long as you need to. My wife will be more than happy to have you with us." Wilmot scowled. "I don't think --" he began. Three strides took Jim to stand nose to nose with the homicide cop. "I do," he growled. "Doctor Stoddard is a senior member of the Rainier staff and Bob is one of his students. Quite apart from anything else, he feels it's his responsibility to watch out for the welfare of his students." "The son is still a suspect. I would expect to take him in to the PD for further questioning --" "Suspect, huh? Did you take a good look at the body?" Behind him, Bob flinched and Blair gripped his arm sympathetically, whispering, "Cop speak, Bob. They have to stay impersonal or they couldn't live with some of the things they see." "I didn't need to! The man obviously bled dry --" "And how long ago?" Jim snarled. He raised his voice. "Dan! Could you come out here a minute?" Wolfe joined them. "Yeah, Jim?" "Have you had a chance to establish how long the victim has been dead?" Wolfe grunted. "I can't say closer than two to four hours." "So at earliest he was killed --?" "Midday or thereabouts." "Thanks, Dan." Jim swung back to Wilmot. "And Bob was at Rainier from around 9 am, three hours earlier than that, with witnesses to prove he was there all day. Still think he's a suspect?" Oops! Blair thought. Jim could only have known that if he had been listening to the conversation in the hall as well as checking out the murder room and speaking to Dan Wolfe. Luckily, Wilmot didn't seem to realize that. He glared back. "All right, in the face of Dan's estimate, I have to say no -- but even you can't deny how often a close relative turns out to be the killer." "It happens, but I've yet to see certain cops looking beyond the relatives." Jim took a long breath. Whatever else he might have said was lost when Stoddard seized the opportunity to say, "Have you finished with me, Lieutenant?" Wilmot nodded. "Then I'd like to take Bob home as soon as possible. If you need me again, you can always contact me at Rainier." "All right, you can go." Stoddard turned to the student. "Bob, you'll need some clothes. Would you like me to stay with you while you get them?" Bob glanced at Jim, who said, "Hold on a moment, Bob. You need a cop to accompany you as well." He went to the door; beckoned one of the uniforms in. "Young Gemmell will be staying with a friend," he said. "He'll need some clothes. Go up with him while he gets them." "Right, Detective." Bob led the two men up the stairs. Wilmot swung back to Jim. "Are you accusing me of not looking beyond the relatives?" he hissed. If the shoe fits... Jim thought. Cliche? It might be, but it felt apt. "Did I mention any names?" he asked blandly. "Dan, did you hear me mention any names?" Wolfe shook his head. "No. And Dick, he's right -- there are some cops who automatically suspect the relatives. I'm sure you can think of one or two without even trying." Wilmot looked from one to the other and grunted noncommittally. "Well, yeah, I suppose," he muttered ungraciously. "Okay, I'd better take another look at the room." Dan led the way; as Wilmot followed, Jim glanced at Blair. "Coming?" Blair nodded. "Yeah," he muttered, although it was basically the last thing he wanted to do. As much as he had disliked the way the dead man had behaved towards his son, the victim was someone he had known, albeit very vaguely. They entered the room to hear the photographer saying, "I have all the photos I need, Serena." "Right." Serena motioned to her assistants, who moved forward with a body bag. "Unless you two want a closer look at the injuries?" Wilmot leaned over the body; Jim shook his head. "Already took a good look," he murmured, carefully not saying that he thought Wilmot should have done so as soon as he arrived but clearly hadn't. After a moment, Wilmot straightened and nodded to Serena's assistants. They quickly and efficiently enclosed the dead man in a body bag, lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him out. Serena nodded to the others, who promptly began dusting the room for fingerprints -- a simple enough task, for the room had a starkly bare look; some furniture that included a small, half empty bookcase, but no pictures or photographs except a large one of a football team on the wall above the fireplace. There were no ornaments in the room -- not even a clock. "Stabbed twice at least," Wolfe said, "maybe three times, though I can't be sure of the exact number of wounds till I see the body stripped. "A deliberate killing? Someone who knew what he was doing?" Wilmot asked, having obviously decided to accept that Jim's comments were general and not specific. "Or someone who panicked?" Blair suggested. "If -- say -- someone broke in, thinking the house was empty, and Mr. Gemmell surprised him?" Jim looked around. "I'd have expected a thief to have been able to make a start on collecting the things he planned on stealing, and I don't see any sign of that," he said. "The room is very bare -- I'd have expected Bob to mention it if there was anything obviously missing. I do think though -- from the amount of blood spattered around -- that the dead man put up quite a fight even after he was initially stabbed." Wilmot nodded. "I don't see any sign of a safe, either," he said, "though there might be one in another room and a possible thief just started looking in here." Jim moved to the window. "No sign of a forced entry this way," he said. Hearing footsteps on the stair, he crossed quickly to the door. "Bob --" "Yes, Mr. Ellison?" "Did your father have a safe in the house?" "Not a safe," Bob said. "There is one of those fake books that can be used to hide valuables." He hesitated, clearly unwilling to enter the living room unless he had to. "It's the fifth one from the right on the second shelf of the bookcase." Blair crossed to the bookcase. A quick glance showed the selection of books was mostly about football. He checked quickly. "Called 'Handyman's Guide'?" "Yes." Jim joined him, pulling on gloves as he went, and pulled it out. He opened it; unfastened the tie that held the inside lid shut. It contained some papers and a thick bundle of banknotes. He flicked through them -- one or two tens, a few twenties, mostly fifties and some hundreds. "Must be at least four thousand here," he said. "Dad always liked to have some money in the house," Bob said from the doorway, where he stood carefully not looking in, clutching his bag as if it was some sort of lifeline. "Who all knew that he kept money in the house?" Jim asked. "Well, any workmen who were here might have guessed, because he always liked to get a bill as soon as any work was done -- if possible, from the men who did the job -- and paid immediately in cash, but there haven't been any workmen in for over a year. There's Mrs. Perez who comes in twice a week to clean, but for all she knows he gets the money from the bank the day before to pay her at the end of each month. And me. Dad and I were the only ones who knew where the money was kept, and I only found out by accident. It seemed an odd book for Dad to get, 'cause he wasn't into DIY, so I had a look at it one day -- I thought it was a real book and wondered what it covered. He never knew I knew." "What about your brother? I suppose he'd have known there was always money in the house?" "Yes, but Dad got that 'book' after Danny left. I think he was scared Danny would come back one day when there was nobody in and steal his money -- until then he kept it in a drawer in his bedroom, and Danny and I both knew that." Blair and Stoddard looked at each other, the same thought in both their minds. The man had thrown his older son out of the house, presumably with nothing but the clothes he was wearing, and he was scared that, in desperation, the boy might break in and steal some money? "All right, Bob, thank you." Jim closed the false book carefully. With Wilmot there, he was careful to stick to procedure. "I'm afraid we'll have to hang on to this for the moment, but you will get it back as soon as possible." Bob stared at him for a moment, clearly not quite understanding, and Jim went on quietly, "I imagine everything will be yours, if he disowned your brother." "Oh. I don't know... " "Do you know the name of your father's lawyer?" Stoddard asked. "No. Dad never encouraged me to be interested in his affairs, always said I wasn't old enough to know anything about... anything except football. Any important papers will probably be in there, though." He nodded at the box in Jim's hands. "How am I going to manage? There's so much I don't know!" Stoddard caught Jim's eye; Jim nodded. "We'll keep you informed," he said quietly, directing his words to Stoddard. Bob glanced from Jim to Stoddard, clearly puzzled by the tone of Jim's voice. Stoddard smiled reassuringly. "You don't have to worry, Bob. We'll help you." "Thanks." "Just one last thing, Bob -- can you take a quick look round. Is there anything missing, do you think?" Jim asked, wanting positive confirmation. The look was very quick. Too quick; he was obviously trying not to see the blood. "No, nothing." "You didn't have any ornaments, a clock, anything like that?" "No. Mom had some ornaments, but after she died Dad got rid of them -- he said things like that were useless, just gathered dust." "Did he ever use a letter opener?" "Yes." "Where did he keep it?" "On the mantelpiece, just under the photo." He looked directly at the mantelpiece, then at Jim. "It's not there." He sounded surprised. "It... it was a really good one -- a sort of parting gift from the guys in the team when he had to retire. I think they had to have had it specially made." "Can you describe it?" "It was sort of a silvery colored metal, and the handle was in the shape of a football, carved with a football player on one side." "Okay, Bob -- thanks." Stoddard guided Bob out; a minute later, Jim heard his car driving away. "Letter opener?" Wilmot asked. Jim pointed to where an envelope lay, partly hidden by the displaced chair. "That was opened with a letter opener." Wilmot simply grunted. With the dead man's son now safely out of the way, Jim seemed to relax. He looked carefully round the room again. "There's no sign of that letter opener, so I'd guess that was the murder weapon and the killer took it away with him. If this was an attempted break-in, I think whoever it was must have left immediately after the killing," he said slowly. "We should check the rest of the house, of course, but I don't see any sign of a search -- no drawers pulled part way out, nothing disarranged except the furniture and that's accounted for by the struggle..." He laid the 'Handyman's Guide' down on the table. "Let's have a look round the house." The upstairs rooms -- all as bare, as bleakly functional as the living room -- were clearly undisturbed; the windows closed. They went downstairs again and checked through the rest of the house. There was no sign there, either, that anyone had tried to force open the windows, most of which had security locks; only one window, in the kitchen, was open, and it was firmly fastened with a small bolt, unreachable from the outside, that prevented it from being opened more than three to four inches. The back door was locked; the key hung from a hook high on the hinge side. Blair noticed Jim breathing deeply as he examined the door. After a moment Jim -- who was still wearing gloves -- took down the key and used it to open the door. He glanced outside, and if he paid particular attention to the two steps leading up to it and the ground in front of them, only Blair noticed. Jim pulled the door closed and relocked it, replacing the key on its hook. "No sign that anyone's used that door recently," he murmured. "The ground is quite muddy, but the steps are clean, as if they were swept recently -- unless the killer had the nerve to sweep the steps, lock the door and go out the front after he killed Gemmell, I don't think he came in that way." "That only leaves the front door, then," Wilmot said. "Looks that way," Jim conceded. "And there's no sign that it was forced." "Not that I can see," Jim agreed. "Which means that the dead man probably knew his killer. We could be back to family." Jim shook his head. "Not necessarily. Bob only mentioned two relatives -- an aunt he hasn't seen since his mother died, and his older brother, who hasn't been near the place since his father threw him out seven or eight years ago --" "How do you know that?" Wilmot interrupted. "Bob told me about it -- last October," Blair said. "Mr. Gemmell wanted Danny to be a football player, Danny refused -- Bob said Danny hated football -- and his father threw him out. Like a bad melodrama -- you know the sort of thing -- 'Never darken my doorstep again'. Bob hasn't seen him since then, and he probably isn't even in Cascade any more." "Doesn't mean he couldn't have come back, come to see his father again, maybe hoping for a reconciliation, been allowed into the house, then either they quarreled and he stabbed the man or he came deliberately planning on killing him." Blair shook his head. "No, man, I don't think so. I didn't actually know the man, but I have met him, and from what I saw of him Gemmell was more likely to have slammed the door in Danny's face than let him into the house. 'Never darken my doorstep again' meant exactly that. The only way he was going to be allowed into the house was if he came back with a reputation as a top football player, and that wasn't going to happen." "It could be worth checking with the neighbors, see if anyone saw someone come to the house," Jim said. Wilmot looked at him, "Are you taking over this case?" he asked bluntly. "This seems to be a straightforward homicide; I'm not planning to butt in, although I have something of an interest here," Jim replied. "I know the boy, although I only spoke to him once before today; Blair knows him a little better, through the university --" "But still not well," Blair interrupted. "I first met him back in October, briefly, and I've seen him once or twice on campus, but never to say more than hello to until yesterday." "And yet he told you about his brother being thrown out?" Wilmot sounded slightly disbelieving. Blair nodded. "Remember the busload of students that went missing, back in the late fall? The bus was caught in a mudslide? He was on it, and so was I. When you're trapped together and think you'll probably die, you do sometimes exchange confidences with virtual strangers." "Oh." "The only reason we're here now is that Bob called us as well as calling you." Jim said. "Obviously I'll have to report back to Captain Banks; after that it's up to him. If he feels Major Crime should be involved, then I'll be happy to work with you on it." He looked round the hallway again, took two or three more deep breaths. "Come on, Chief. We still have to finish going over the Brewster reports, and I'm sure Lt. Wilmot wants to get on with things here." On the way out, Jim casually picked up the false book. Not that he distrusted Wilmot, who would, he knew, probably hand it straight in; but if the 'book' contained the dead man's business papers, he didn't want them lost in evidence lockup, possibly for months, because Bob would probably need access to them. This would be safe in Simon's hands. "So," Blair said as Jim started the truck, "what was the scent you picked up?" Jim frowned slightly. "I don't know," he said. "It definitely wasn't a woman's perfume; it was too spicy for that. It had to be something like aftershave, or maybe a man's cologne, but it wasn't any kind I've ever smelled. It could be a new one or a foreign brand, I suppose. Unless whoever was using it was very sparing when he applied it, though, he was in the house in the morning, and Gemmell was killed in the afternoon." "You're sure it was this morning? If it was that faint, mightn't it have been lingering for two or three days?" Jim shook his head. "No, it wasn't that old. Something a day or two old smells... I dunno, sort of stale, sort of blending in with the furniture." He gestured impatiently. "I can't describe it. I just know when something smells as if it's been there for a while. This didn't." "Which means there were at least two visitors?" "And they both came in the front door. There wasn't any trace of anything other than house smell at the back door. Add to that, one of them smoked." "You think it was one of the visitors?" "I didn't smell tobacco on either Gemmell or Bob, so yes, it must have been one of the visitors. I don't think he actually lit a cigarette while he was in the house -- it was more as if his clothes were carrying the smell. I couldn't identify the brand, but I'll know it if I smell it again. "Then there was a third smell, only just noticeable... like paint, but not -- it's similar to the stuff we put on the walls and doors of the loft, only not quite the same..." Blair stiffened. "Artists' paint?" "It could be." "Danny Gemmell was artistic." "Hell," Jim said mildly. "That's a pretty big jump in logic, Chief, but in this case, it does seem plausible... So maybe Wilmot was right after all. Family. Maybe Danny was one of Gemmell's visitors."
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