Ruth smoothly took up the tale, as if they’d worked as a team for a very long time. “She actually started crying, and only got ahold of herself after I reminded her how important it all is, now that Erin is dead.”
Dix said, “After she dried her eyes, the first thing she did was ask us if we’d like some coffee. I said yes to give Helen some time to collect herself.”
Ruth said, “She apologized to Dix because she knew Dr. Holcombe was his uncle, but she had thought about it, and had to let it out. The bottom line is, Helen Rafferty admitted she and Dr. Holcombe—that’s how she always referred to him—were lovers for perhaps three months about five years ago. She said it was in the summer, when there weren’t many students around. He broke it off, told her that being with her drained him. You’re going to like this—he said being with her had been sort of like attaching himself to an ancient blessing that had lost its power over the years, and now it was suffocating him and he couldn’t continue to be intimate with her. Fact was, she told us, Dr. Holcombe had this compulsion—she
’d known about it since before their affair. He’d slept with a number of very talented young women at Stanislaus over the years, and he seemed not to want to stop. She confronted him with it, and he said he supposed that deep inside his spirit he needed their nourishment, their innocent love of music and life, or he couldn’t create, couldn’t compose his own music, didn’t think he could go on at all. She smiled a little and said she knows what that sounds like, but that he believed it, she was sure of that.
“Helen still thinks of him as a great man with a sickness, a harmless infirmity, not an old lech. So she bought into it. Because she had to, I guess, because she still loves him and admires him tremendously. She said Erin Bushnell was just another girl in a steady stream of talented young students who found themselves ministering to Dr. Holcombe’s spiritual needs. Again, her words.”
Dix sat forward on the sofa, clasped his hands between his knees. “Then she frowned, said maybe she was wrong, maybe Dr. Holcombe had felt more about Erin than about the others. It was creepy, guys, the way she spoke of him and his philandering, as if it was all right as long as it inspired Uncle Gordon’s music. She forgave all of it.”
Ruth picked up the story. “She said Dr. Holcombe had incredible energy, he composed the most amazing music in the past few months. But now, she said, he is destroyed, a shell of himself, and she is very worried about him. I mentioned he didn’t seem all that destroyed when we told him about Erin’s murder, and she told us he would never want to burden others with his pain.” Ruth snorted. Sherlock asked Dix, “Did you get the names of the other young girls who ‘ministered’ to Dr. Holcombe over the years?”
“Whoa—” Dix pulled out his notebook, thumbed through the pages. “Okay, over the period of time that Helen has worked for Dr. Holcombe—fourteen years, four months—she thought he had affairs with about eight female students—that is in addition to Helen—both graduate students and undergraduates. I believe that would be up to the advanced age of twenty-three or -four. She gave me some of the names
—none of them are at Stanislaus anymore—and said she’d look up the rest.”
Ruth marveled aloud, “Imagine, a man my father’s age believing I was too old to sleep with. She said that when Dr. Holcombe ‘disengaged’—her word—from a student, they didn’t leave Stanislaus, except when they graduated. They all seemed happy to remain, somehow simply taking it as part of their educational experience. Maybe they even enjoyed themselves, knowing they had made the great man shine again, who knows?”
Savich said slowly, “It would seem Dr. Holcombe had very good judgment about whom to pick, an excellent talent for self-preservation. It must also have helped over the years that as director of Stanislaus, he had great influence over their professional futures. I’m surprised other people in the school didn’t know about Dr. Holcombe’s predilections, then certainly there would be gossip, some bad feeling from students who couldn’t compete, maybe even a bit of huff from colleagues who found his behavior inappropriate.”
Ruth said, “Helen told us she actually thought no one except the girls involved over the years knew about it. She certainly never heard any rumors.”
Savich shook his head. “That’s hard to believe. Usually if more than two people know about something illicit, particularly something as juicy as this, it starts coming back to them in embarrassing detail.”
“Helen told us she herself had helped him quite a bit to protect his privacy,” Ruth said. “Translate that to ‘
helped him keep his dirty little secret.’”
“He lives alone,” Dix said. “And I know he’s owned a place outside of town for many years, converted it into a studio. He may have spent time with them there. And another thing: If Chappy were aware of this, every single soul within a hundred miles would know about it. And the way Chappy would tell it, his brother wouldn’t have had a chance of staying on at Stanislaus. Maybe some of the students know, some of the professors, but no one outside Stanislaus.”
“He must be the smoothest talker around,” Sherlock said. “I hope all those other girls are all right.”
“Yes,” Dix said, “we wondered that, too. We already located two of them, and they’re fine. As soon as we get the rest of the list, we’ll track them all down.”
Ruth said, “We asked Helen not to speak to anyone about our conversation, particularly Dr. Holcombe. We asked her for Dr. Holcombe’s schedule on Friday, and when she last saw Erin. At that point her eyes nearly bugged out of her head—she realized that we might be thinking he killed Erin Bushnell. She started babbling, saying over and over he didn’t have that kind of illness. Dear Dr. Holcombe wouldn’t even bang down hard on a piano key, there was no way he’d hurt anyone, particularly a Stanislaus student. She was sure of that, only told us all this because she didn’t want to lie to the police, and it was probably better for Dr. Holcombe that it come out right away. She knew he didn’t tell us when we talked to him on Monday, and assumed he hadn’t even thought of it because he was so distraught. Then she went on with this sappy spiel about how Dr. Holcombe’s precious students play all over the world, and inspire beauty and understanding, maybe even world peace.”
Sherlock said, “Is she nuts?”
Dix said, “I think she’s got a big blind spot when it comes to Uncle Gordon. She said he hasn’t eaten since he found out about Erin, stopped composing and playing his instruments, is silent, unable to deal with the world or his job. She felt terrible for him. As to what he did on Friday, Helen claimed he was closeted in student meetings all afternoon and he never left the campus. Then she gave us a look of triumph because she’d given him an alibi. Is she telling the truth?” Dix shrugged.
“What did Dr. Holcombe say when you asked him about his whereabouts?” Sherlock asked.
“We haven’t talked to the man today,” Dix said. “Helen had convinced him to attend a rehearsal he had scheduled. We’ll talk to him, and Helen again, in the morning.” Dix turned to Ruth and said suddenly, “
Ruth, how are you feeling? Do you have a headache?”
She blinked at him, smiled. “A tad of pounding behind my left ear. It’s nothing, Dix.”
“Let me get you some aspirin. Better to cut it off before it digs in.” He walked quickly from the living room.
The phone rang, but only once. Dix must have grabbed it. Savich looked at Ruth, an eyebrow raised. To his surprise, Special Agent Ruth Warnecki, tough, seasoned, and sharp as a tack, blushed. Life was sometimes unutterably cool, Sherlock thought as she took Dillon’s hand and rose. “It’s getting late and we’re both pretty tired. We can get an early start in the morning.”