Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(29)

“Except for Thomas Huston.”

“We are the only published writers in the department, did you know that? In an English department of seventeen people. Two creative writers. It’s fucking pathetic.”

“There’s a Professor…Conescu?” DeMarco said.

“He’s a dickhead.”

“How so?”

“In every way so. He is the epitome of academic paranoia. Thinks the whole department is out to get him just because he’s Romanian. Because he has an accent. Because his gypsy grandfather was hanged at Buchenwald. Or so he claims anyway.”

“And are you?”

“Am I…?”

“You and Professor Huston. Were you out to get him?”

“We were out to get rid of him, yes. But only because he’s fucking incompetent. He’s a blight on the entire department.”

“And that’s why he was denied tenure?”

“He never should have been hired in the first place. He should be in a padded room somewhere.”

DeMarco smiled. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad, looked at what was written there, put it away again. “So it was you and Dr. Huston who led the vote against him.”

“He’s not a doctor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tom. He doesn’t have a PhD.”

“But you do.”

“MFA, UC San Diego. PhD, University of Denver.”

DeMarco nodded.

“I mean, that has never mattered to me. The guy’s written two bestsellers.”

“I thought it was four books,” DeMarco said.

“Right, four, same as me. But only two of them, the last two, had significant sales. The first one barely sold at all. It’s my favorite though. For some reason I’ve always liked it the best.”

“You’ve written four books too?”

“It’s poetry, of course. Small presses. Not for the masses.”

DeMarco nodded. He remembered what Huston had written. It’s easy to read between the lines once you get the hang of it.

“So this Conescu,” DeMarco said. “Would he be capable, in your opinion? Of what happened to the Huston family?”

“Are you saying Tom didn’t do it?”

“I’m asking which of the two would be more capable.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the poet said. “More capable? There’s no question. Not in my mind anyway. I mean Tom isn’t perfect… He has his shortcomings, sure, just like everybody else. But something like that? Wiping out the whole family? I just can’t fathom it.”

“What shortcomings?”

“Department wise mostly. He just wasn’t terribly concerned about the business of the department. If it wasn’t his family, his students, or his own writing, he had to be nudged, you know?”

DeMarco thought, His own writing?

“So you think Conescu might have been involved somehow?”

DeMarco smiled. “We don’t know.”

“But you think it’s a possibility?”

“At this point, everything is a possibility.” DeMarco put his hands on his knees. “I should let you get back to your lesson plans.” He stood. “Thanks for taking the time to speak with me.”

“Anytime, honestly. I’m more than happy to help.”

DeMarco paused before descending the stairs. “By the way, just for the record, where were you last Saturday night?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Standard procedure.”

“Well, let me think. I guess I was here.”

“You guess?”

“I mean I was. I was here all night.”

“Anybody else?”

“Here? Just me and my muse.”

“She have a name?”

“I call her the Bitch. But it was just the two of us all Saturday night. I was in the bedroom at my computer until, I don’t know, well after midnight. Revising a manuscript for a chapbook contest.”

“So if I have my resident computer geek dig into your computer and pull out all the time signatures on your hard drive, he’ll be able to confirm that?”

A muscle twitched in Denton’s jaw. “They can do that? I mean, the computer keeps track like that?”

“To the minute,” DeMarco said. He had no idea if it was true or not. He hoped it was. He smiled at the poet.

“No problem,” Denton finally answered. “Absolutely.”

DeMarco nodded, then headed down the stairs.

Denton remained at the top. “Could you tell me though? Do you guys have any idea where Tom has disappeared to?”

DeMarco did not look back. “Have a good day, Professor.”





Twenty-One


DeMarco stood in the center of the communal living room of apartment 312 North Hall. The girl who had answered the door, then went to 312C to alert Heather Ramsey of his presence, now stood with her back to him at the kitchen sink as she washed the same juice glass over and over again. When Heather came into the living room, the girl at the sink shut off the faucet and meticulously dried every millimeter of the glass.

“I just have a few questions is all,” DeMarco said to Heather Ramsey.