“Some pattern we've got,” I said. “Retarded kids and a genius with no sympathy for the genetically impaired. The only link I can see to our murders is Ponsico learned something at Meta that made him a threat. The killer chitchatting too explicitly about his plans, and Ponsico's contempt for the unfortunate didn't extend to homicide.”
“Dr. Sally's convinced this Zena was the killer but Zena's tiny and that part about her surprising Ponsico from behind is nonsense. The wound would have hurt but a big guy like that could have fought her off easily. So if he was murdered it was by someone strong. Just like our kids.”
“What about Zena and someone else?”
“A killing team… why not, we're entertaining all kinds of fantasies, but the only strike against this girl is the other girl hates her guts. Somewhere down the line, though, she may turn out useful.”
“As an entrÉe to Meta.”
He nodded. “Meantime, let's see what our Israeli friend has to offer.”
In the daylight, Sharavi's house was shabby. When he came to the door he was close-shaved and neatly dressed. Cup of tea in his hand. Mint sprig floating on top. I became aware of my own stubbled face.
He looked out at the street and let us in. The tea gave off steam.
“May I offer you some?”
Milo said, “No, thanks. Hope your computer's working.”
We walked to the back room. The PC was on, a screen-saving pink hexagon dancing on the black screen. Sharavi had arranged two folding chairs in the middle of the carpet. The velvet bag for his prayer equipment was gone.
Milo showed him the article about Farley Sanger's Meta editorial and told him about Malcolm Ponsico.
He pulled up to the workstation and began punching keys, using a one-handed hunt-and-peck that was faster than I would have believed.
The bad hand rested on his lap, an inert hunk of flesh.
I watched data bank after data bank flash and disappear.
After a while, he said, “If this group has done something criminal, none of the major agencies knows about it. I'll check academic bases.”
The keyword Meta brought up hundreds of irrelevant topics from university data stations: meta-analysis in philosophy, scores of chemical compounds, references to metabolism, metallurgy, metamorphosis.
When we'd waded through all of it, he said, “Let's try the Internet. It's become an international trash can, but who knows.”
“Let's try the phone first,” said Milo. “New York Information for Meta.”
Sharavi smiled. “Good point.” He dialed 212 Information, waited, hung up. “No listing.”
“Maybe,” I said, “the publicity about Sanger's article drove them out of business.”
“Could be,” said Sharavi. “Though hate's a hot commodity. It could also drum up more business. Shall I try the Internet, now?”
Using a coded password, he hooked into an on-line network I'd never heard of. No cute graphics or chat lines, just stark black letters on white screen.
Several seconds passed and he sat there without moving or blinking.
WELCOME R. VAN RIJN flashed.
Rembrandt's surname. Had the Israeli police assigned him the moniker or did he fancy himself an artist?
A brown hand flew nimbly over the keyboard and within seconds he was web-crawling.
Another flood of unrelated topics: an entomologist in Paris doing research on a larva called metacercaria, a holistic healer in Oakland promising to cure aches of the metacarpal bones.
Twenty minutes later, he stopped.
“Suggestions?”
“Try Mensa,” said Milo. “Meta's an imitator, meaning there's probably some hostility between the groups. Maybe some Mensa faithful wants to express feelings.”
Sharavi swiveled around, attacking the keyboard.
“Plenty on Mensa,” he said.
We watched him scroll slowly through page after page. Times and places for Mensa meetings around the world, Mensa-related topics.
A similar organization in London calling itself Limey Scumdogs discussing its favorite things. Members with nicknames- the Sharp Kidd, Sugar Baby, Buffalo Bob- listing “bad puns,” “strong coffee and dialectics,” “debates from hell,” “cuddles and housebroken Afghan hounds.” And so on.
Some of the notations were in foreign languages and Sharavi seemed to be reading them.
“What was that?” said Milo, pointing, as Sharavi skipped one.
“Dublin Mensa. Probably Gaelic.”
More scrolling.
A real-estate broker in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, advertising his services and listing Mensa membership as a job qualification.
Same for a personnel manager in Chicago, a dental hygienist in Orlando, Florida, an engineer in Tokyo, dozens more.
Unemployment hadn't spared the top of the bell curve.
Next came an IQ MEASUREMENT section. Several writers, all men, displaying questions from intelligence scales- quickie tests, the type featured in know-your-IQ-paperbacks. Most selections were followed by variations of the assertion that “this is an extremely rigorous set of questions constructed to show a stratospherically high level of intelligence.”
The Punchline:
ROBERT'S IQ.
HORACE'S IQ.
KEITH'S IQ.
CHARLES'S IQ…
Some pages had accompanying artwork- Einstein's face was a favorite.
All with CLICK HERE TO SEE MY SCORE boxes.
Sharavi's clicks brought up graphs with little stars for Robert and Horace and Keith and Charles and…
All in the 170-plus range.
“Such smart people,” said Sharavi. “So much free time.”
“Weenie-land,” said Milo. “Send 'em applications to the Get a Life Club.”
Sharavi moved through several more pages with no success.
“The information age,” said Milo. “You spend lots of time doing this?”
“Less and less,” said Sharavi, hand continuing to move. “When the Internet began it was more valuable as an investigative tool. Professors talking to professors, scientific data, agencies communicating. Now, there's too much to wade through for the little you get. It seems to have become one big chat-room for lonely people.”
He turned and looked at me. “I suppose that serves a purpose, Doctor.”
“Keep going,” said Milo.
After two more hours of viewing, we had nothing.
“I assume you've already looked up DVLL,” I told Sharavi.
“That and all the hate groups who run bulletin boards. No progress, I'm afraid.”
“What about a different keyword,” I said. “Galton, sterilization, eugenics, euthanasia.”
He typed.
Sterilization brought up more references to food-safety than castration and most of the discussions of eugenics were glorified personal ads: “I hereby splay my DNA out on the platter of public scrutiny. Women desiring choice nucleic protein are cordially invited to apply.”
Sharavi printed it all out, anyway, page after page landing in the bin silently. From time to time Milo got up, removed sheets, scanned them, put them back.
At five-thirty, he said, “Enough. They obviously keep a low profile.”
“We could act rather than just react,” said Sharavi. “E-mailing something about Meta into some of the data banks and see what turns up.”
“Can you be sure your identity's totally protected?” said Milo.
“No. I change passwords and addresses regularly but you can never be sure.”
“Then, no, not yet. I don't want to alert anyone.”
“I already did that with my call to Mensa,” I said, describing the message I'd left.
Milo said, “No big deal,” but I could tell he was bothered and I felt like an amateur.
He turned to Sharavi. “Any other insights?”
“Ponsico's suicide. Despite the lack of evidence, it does sound irregular. Using poison, for starters. Poisoners tend to be women, right?”
“Ponsico was a scientist.”
“True,” said Sharavi. “Which leads me to another issue: As a scientist he'd know what to expect. Potassium chloride causes a quick death, but it's far from painless- sudden cardiac arrhythmia, a severe heart attack. When you execute criminals with it, you add sodium pentothal for pre-sedation and pancurium bromide to stop breathing. Couldn't Ponsico have chosen an easier death for himself?”