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VI
The First Monday
We must rid ourselves of the constituting subject… which is to say arrive at an analysis which can account for the subject itself within an historical account.
Michel Foucault
Lunch on Monday was productive. Charlie had spent the morning getting himself together for that afternoon's possible course, but at lunch he'd talked about Barrett's murder. The club table again demonstrated its advantages. A pathologist Charlie knew slightly said that a corpse would start to smell after some twenty-four to thirty-six hours in a room at sixty-to-sixty-five degrees. The usual temperature for most buildings on campus was sixty-two, but the heat would have been lowered for the holiday break, so Barrett's body had probably been in his office for a couple of days. That made it seem most likely that he was killed in late afternoon or evening of New Year's Eve. The police would have more exact information, but Charlie was glad to have a rough idea for two reasons: the timing suggested that Barrett's killer was someone only willing to meet Barrett or that Barrett was only willing to meet when there was no one else around. It also seemed unlikely that Barrett had gone to his office for any other reason than to meet someone.
As he walked back to the department, Charlie was surprised to find himself nervous. He hadn't been nervous before a class in years. Part of it was that he didn't know if he had a class and another part was apprehension about lecturing to students whom he had to interest in the work of a thinker that no doubt they had been warned against. The main thing, though, was that he had to carry on as if the Barrett business had never happened.
The room assigned to him was in Trevor Hall, which boasted a small coffee shop on the first floor. That would make their halfway-point break more pleasant. Assuming anyone showed up.
Unable to decide whether to be a bit early or a bit late, Charlie dithered until he was a bit late. He reached Room 221 three or four minutes after the hour, braced himself, and walked in. He got a real shock. The small seminar room had a table in its center around which some twelve people could sit. Every seat was taken and there were five or six students standing at the back of the room. Charlie quickly realized some were there to check out the course and most of those wouldn't be staying, but he noticed that all but a couple of the students at the table had the assigned book, as did some who were standing. Students never bought a course-text unless they planned to take the course.
Charlie's surprise evidently showed because several of the students smiled and looked at one another. He immediately decided not to pretend.
"I didn't expect so many of you here; I thought at most four or five. In fact, we now have a bit of a problem. If you all stay, we'll need another room. Well, let me say a bit about the course and perhaps we won't have a numbers problem."
While the polite laughter died away Charlie decided to scrap his intended remarks, which had been aimed at a few students already familiar with Foucault. He was certain that with this many in the class, he had to begin further back than he'd planned. That wasn't a problem, though, as he'd just give his standard opening mini-lecture.
"Michel Foucault was an original thinker. He's also a thinker many or most of you won't have encountered because he worked in a tradition quite different from the one favored by the department. In fact, to some of my colleagues, Foucault didn't even do philosophy; they see him as a kind of social psychologist and intellectual historian. But familiar labels don't do Foucault justice. One of my favorite quotes is where he asks, in The Use of Pleasure, what intellectual activity can consist in "if not in the endeavor…to think differently." Unfortunately, too many academics only pay lip-service to thinking differently. Most are content to take part in established debates and focus on issues that have been thrashed out by other like-minded scholars."
Charlie talked for about twenty minutes, then gave the first reading assignment and let them go. He went directly to Amanda's office. Happily, she was in.
"Amanda, I've got some eighteen students in my course, when I expected four or five. I'm going to need another room, if they all stay."
"Charlie, Barrett's death has made a difference to several course enrollments. I'm going to have to work things out regarding rooms. You'll just have to cope for a little while."
"You're suggesting I've got a bunch of Barrett's students? I can't believe that; they'd be the last ones interested in doing a course on Foucault."
"No, it's more complicated. The students that would have been in Barrett's course have mostly been accommodated in Jack's, which met this morning. That meant he had thirty in his class, and he asked those who were willing to find other options. But it's not likely Barrett's students you've drawn but one or two of Jack's who were willing to do something else. Jack ended up with twenty-five, so the others you have must be there because they want to do your course. In any case, we'll sort out the rooms when things settle down."
Charlie called Kate and told her that he actually had quite a few more enrollees than he thought he might have. She congratulated him, then said:
"Before I forget, detective DeVries called you. She tried your office but you must have been in class. She said she'd drop by around six but to call her at a number she left if you wouldn't be home for some reason."
When Charlie arrived home it was just five o'clock. Kate offered him a glass of wine.
"No; I'll wait for dinner; I don't want to drink anything if DeVries is coming. Did she mention Bolster?"
"No, she didn't."
Charlie read for a bit but couldn't concentrate. When DeVries turned up she was alone and apologized for bothering them at home. It struck Charlie that she was acting almost as if she were either selling something or wanted to ask a favor. DeVries and Charlie sat down; Kate went for a bottle of wine and glasses. Charlie was curious to see if DeVries would ask to speak to him privately. She didn't. Kate returned with the wine and Charlie was a little surprised when DeVries accepted a glass. They talked about how the weather had suddenly turned colder for the compulsory few minutes before DeVries got to the point.
"Dr. Douglas…"
"Call me 'Charlie.'"
"Charlie, then. Dan and I, that is, detective Bolster and I, seem to have hit a brick wall. The forensics on Dr. Wilson's death were very straightforward but of no help to us. He was shot in his office; he wasn't moved. We found hundreds of prints and now have to go through the tedious business of excluding most or all. So far none of the prints we found have matched any in our database or others we have access to. There was nothing we found in the office that was of any use. Dr. Wilson's computer was password protected, but our technicians had no trouble accessing it. Unfortunately, he had only course stuff on the hard drive. There was nothing of a personal nature. Even his email program proved useless; he clearly deleted messages after he'd read them, or perhaps had another computer, though we didn't find one in his house. He was also knowledgeable enough to use a program that overwrites deleted files with zeroes. What bothers Dan and me is that we may be missing something."
"We think you may be able to help us. You might know students who worked with Dr. Wilson or knew him well. I'm sure that given the interest in your department in his death, it should be easy to get someone talking about Dr. Wilson. All you have to do is listen carefully."
Charlie wasn't surprised. This was - partly - why he planned to talk to Barrett's students. But now he was torn between telling DeVries about the oddness of the Philos. 110 course-folder and keeping his mouth shut because of what she would think about his going into Barrett's office. He opted for discretion. He couldn't help thinking, though, that Foucault would have liked his predicament. It was a perfect example of how his action, or non-action, would no doubt have unforeseen consequences.
"I can certainly talk to students who worked with Barrett. To be honest, I'd planned to do just that to satisfy my own curiosity. I'll be glad to pass on anything I learn."
When DeVries rose to leave Charlie got up and accompanie
d her to her car. As soon as they were through the front door and Kate was out of earshot, Charlie told DeVries some of what he'd been doing.
"Look, Kate's rather leery of my playing detective, but I've already looked up the students Barrett was either supervising or on whose committees he served. I'm going to speak to each of them, as casually as I can manage, to see if I can learn something. I did find out that one, Richard Dalton, was in the army before registering for his M.A. It probably means nothing, but it might."
"It might well be important. This is just the sort of thing Dan and I could miss and that you can learn more effectively than we could. If there is anything, please call one of us and don't ignore things you think trivial. Let us decide. What seems unimportant to you could be significant when we connect it to something else that we know."
DeVries wished him goodnight and drove off.
"Were you pumping her or the other way around?"
"No big deal; I just told her I'd learned one of Barrett's students was in the army."
Kate looked suspicious, but she didn't press him.
"So what are you going to do about your course?"
"I actually haven't thought about it anymore. If they all stay, fine; if only a few do, fine. At least I can be pretty sure that some will stay, which means the course is on. Now, let's go to Sandoval's or somewhere else if you'd prefer."
As it turned out, Charlie later regretted adding that last bit. Kate wanted to go to a restaurant run by an Italian couple, Guido and Flavia Grimaldi. He was the chef and she waited on tables and did everything else. Grimaldi's was tiny. There were just two tables for four, four tables for two, and a small bar near the door with only four stools. Grimaldi's didn't take reservations, so there was always someone at the bar waiting for a table, usually sipping a glass of the overpriced and not-very-good house wine. The food was excellent, but Charlie always felt crowded. He and Kate usually went early or quite late. Turning up at seven o'clock was hopeless.
When Charlie and Kate got to Grimaldi's, a little later than was their custom, no tables were available but two stools at the bar were free. They perched on them and began their routine. Charlie complained about the house wine; Kate reminded him of the glories of the saltimbocca and the pesto linguini. The trouble was that Guido - Charlie didn't want to blame Flavia - not only overpriced the house wine, he charged outrageously for anything worth drinking. After several sticker-shock tabs, Charlie and Kate formed the habit of ordering glasses of the house red or white - both equally poor - and having a good bottle when they got home. Charlie could live with the usual restaurant practice of doubling the price of a bottle, but he balked at tripling it and more.
Charlie and Kate had been at the bar for about twenty minutes, sipping frugally at the house red they'd ordered, when they saw a couple at one of the tables for two ask for their bill. When Charlie noticed them signaling to Flavia, he realized it was Jack Shwayder and an attractive woman. Flavia was busily serving dessert and espresso to a table for four and didn't notice she was being summoned. After a couple minutes Jack rose and waved at her. One of the people at the table she was serving gestured toward Jack and Flavia looked over, smiled, nodded, and continued chatting. Jack accepted this for another minute or two and then harrumphed pointedly. Flavia nodded to him again, held up one finger, and disappeared into the kitchen. Charlie knew that doing so was not to get the bill because she kept them in a wallet she tucked into the pocket of her apron. Sure enough, when she emerged she was carrying another two espressos and took them to a table just behind Jack's. Charlie could see that Jack was beginning to get unreasonably angry. When Flavia finally gave Jack his bill, he took one look at it and asked in a loud voice why he was being charged an exorbitant amount for the wine he'd ordered. Flavia, having faced this problem many times before, grabbed a wine list from the bar and pointed at something while showing it to Jack.
"I didn't notice that outrageous price for a bottle of very ordinary Chianti; that's ridiculous, it's almost four times what it costs!"
With this Jack now held the attention of the other diners and Charlie noticed several sympathetic nods. Flavia, though, looked embarrassed. She said something to Jack and went into the kitchen. In a moment Guido was at Jack's table. They exchanged some quiet remarks, but body language made clear that both were angry. Finally, Jack gave Guido some money and rose to leave. Guido smiled vacantly around the room and returned to the kitchen. Jack's partner got up and they started out of the restaurant. When Jack was opposite Charlie on his way to the door, he stopped and glared at Charlie.
"Ah, Charlie Douglas. Celebrating Barrett's death?"
Jack's partner was as surprised as Charlie and Kate, and she began to tug on Jack's sleeve.
"I know you hated him and did everything you could to bring him down just because you can't begin to understand his work. I suppose you're happy now."
Charlie stood and pushed his face very close to Jack's.
"And you must be happy now that you're the main asshole in the department."
Jack looked taken aback at the vitriol in Charlie's voice, made all the more effective by Charlie speaking at a conversational level. Jack's partner then pulled him sharply and in a moment both were out the door. Flavia hurried from the kitchen and beckoned Charlie and Kate to the empty table while quickly resetting it. Kate, after a quick look around the restaurant at all the interested patrons, gave Flavia her best smile and sat down as if nothing had happened.
"I can't believe that jerk; I also can't believe the anger I felt toward him. I've had as little to do with Jack as with Barrett, but suddenly it was as if everything I felt toward Barrett was redirected at Jack. I actually was sympathetic to him when he was arguing about the Chianti; you know how I feel about Guido's wine prices. Then for him not only to make a scene but to talk to me like that?"
"Forget about it. How long has Grimaldi's been open?"
"About five years."
"Did you see Flavia's resigned look when Shwayder started in on her about the wine? Who knows how often that happens. The trouble is that Guido doesn't use an agent; he buys from a couple of local stores, so most customers know what their wines cost and that Guido multiplies that by three or four times."
"Well, Guido ought to get the message. Maybe something good will come out of Shwayder's boorish behavior."
Charlie realized that something else productive had come out of the unpleasantness: he'd seen that there was still another element in the recreation of the person that had been Barrett Wilson. It seemed Barrett had inspired genuine loyalty in some, and if he'd done that with Jack, he'd probably done it with a few of the grad students he'd dealt with. The other side of the coin was that Barrett might also have inspired real hatred.
"Who was the woman with Shwayder?"
"I don't know. I didn't really notice; too busy with him. I don't think I've seen her before. He certainly didn't seem interested in introducing us, and she seemed embarrassed by how he acted. Maybe he had more of the over-priced wine than he should have."
When they got home Charlie went to brush his teeth. Later, in bed waiting for Kate, he reviewed what he'd gathered so far about Barrett. He tried to brush aside the dark presence of Foucault, who would describe what Charlie was piecing together as a new construction rather than a reconstruction. He tried to take it that what he'd learned really did describe Barrett Wilson as opposed to manufacturing an essentially new subject out of his own conjectures and other peoples' perceptions. So far he had a man with two sides to him. On the one hand he was barely tolerated by some; on the other he was well-liked by others. As an academic he had been insufferable; socially he seemed to have been congenial. Then Kate came out of the bathroom and Charlie forgot all about Barrett.