Bloody Genius by John Sandford Read Free Book Online Page A

did.
    She pointed at the visitor’s chair, sat down herself, and asked, “Have you really killed someone with your shotgun?”
    “Yes,” Virgil said. “He was trying to kill me at the time. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was recalcitrant and continued trying to kill me. So, I shot him. I feel bad about it. But not too bad. The memory isn’t incapacitating or anything.”
    “That would be an interesting study . . . people who have killed other people and how they feel about it,” Green said. “Has modern American gun society so deadened our reactions to killing that we don’t even experience an emotional toll when we ourselves kill someone? A longitudinal study, going back after a month, six months, a year, two years, and so on, would be interesting. Does the memory fade? Does the shooter avoid negative psychological consequences because of cultural conditioning through social media? How do American reactions to killing compare with non-gun societies? England, perhaps. Or Denmark.”
    Virgil crossed his legs, settling into his chair, and said, “I personally know several guys—actually, I know a woman as well—who’ve killed other people and their reactions are all over the place. Some of them, it doesn’t seem to affect, but others are screwed up about it. Still others seem screwed up, but only to theextent that it gets them time off or disability pay or job preferences.”
    “Interesting,” she said. She made a note on a desk pad. “Now, what can I do for you? On this Quill murder? I’ve told the police—”
    Virgil held up a hand. “I know, I read Sergeant Trane’s account of your testimony. I just wanted to push it around the plate.”
    “I don’t believe I’ve encountered that idiom before, ‘push it around the plate,’” Green said. She scribbled another note. “Where’d you hear it?”
    “My mother used it,” Virgil said. “So. What was your personal relationship to Dr. Quill?”
    She recoiled. “None. I never . . . Are you suggesting—”
    “No, no, no.” Virgil smiled. “I’m not talking about sex, heaven forbid. I’m asking if you talked, outside of these conflicts you had recently, about the t-word thing?”
    “‘T-word’? You mean ‘twat’?’”
    “Yes. Did you talk—”
    “I don’t believe I ever said a word to him in my entire life before he came to my lecture and began yelling at me,” Green said. “Then I went to his seminar, and, well, we didn’t actually speak, we shouted at each other.”
    “And you didn’t kill him?”
    “Of course not! I mean—”
    “I had to ask,” Virgil said, holding up his hands, flashing another smile. “How about other people from Cultural Science? Is there anyone involved with your department that you might think capable of murder? Even if the murder was impulsive, as opposed to planned?”
    She stared at him for a moment, then said, “I suppose you do have to ask.” She turned away, looking out a window at the brickwall of another building, then turned back and said, “Do you know about Clete?”
    “Clete? Was he the guy charged with assault after your speech?”
    “Yes. Clete May. He has what I’d call a machismo thing—sometimes a problem, sometimes not. That can be quite useful when doing cultural research. You know, he’s happy to carry heavy things for us women, pick up the check more often than he has to, possibly defend us in the more misogynistic cultures. That kind of thing. He also has a tendency to lean into our female students and staff.”
    “‘Lean into’? You mean ‘grab’? ‘Pressure’? ‘Assault’?” Virgil asked.
    “No, I meant what I said: lean. He leans into them. He moves into their spaces, whether he’s welcome or not. Somehow, I feel that you might be familiar with the concept.”
    “I would never lean into anyone’s space if I weren’t welcome,” Virgil said.
    “How can you tell without trying?” Green asked.
    “You’d have to be a moron not to know,” Virgil