the Third Twin (1996)

“Professor, this is Sergeant Delaware from the Sex Crimes Unit calling on Monday night. I appreciate your cooperation today.” Berrington shrugged. He had done little more than confirm that Lisa Hoxton worked at Nut House. She went on: “As you are Ms. Hoxton’s employer and the rape took place on campus, I thought I should tell you we have arrested a man this evening. In fact, he was a subject at your laboratory today. His name is Steven Logan.”

“Jesus!” Berrington burst out.

“The victim picked him out at the lineup, so I’m sure the DNA test will confirm that he is the man. Please pass this information on to any others at the college whom you think appropriate. Thank you.”

“No!” Berrington said. He sat down heavily. “No,” he said more quietly.

Then he began to weep.

After a moment he got up, still crying, and closed the study door, for fear the maid might come in. Then he returned to his desk and buried his head in his hands.

He stayed that way for some time.

When at last the tears dried up, he lifted the phone and called a number he knew by heart.

“Not the answering machine, please, God,” he said aloud as he listened to it ring out.

A young man answered. “Hello?”

“This is me,” Berrington said.

“Hey, how are you?”

“Desolate.”

“Oh.” The tone was guilty.

If Berrington had any doubts, that note in the voice swept them away. “You know what I’m calling about, don’t you.”

“Tell me.”

“Don’t play games with me, please. I’m talking about Sunday night.”

The young man sighed. “Okay.”

“You goddamn fool. You went to the campus, didn’t you? You—” He realized he should not say too much on the phone. “You did it again.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry!”

“How did you know?”

“At first I didn’t suspect you—I thought you’d left town. Then they arrested someone who looks just like you.”

“Wow! That means I’m—”

“You’re off the hook.”

“Wow. What a break. Listen …”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t say anything. To the police, or anything.”

“No, I won’t say a word,” Berrington said with a heavy heart. “You can rely on me.”

TUESDAY

15

THE CITY OF RICHMOND HAD AN AIR OF LOST GRANDEUR, AND Jeannie thought Dennis Pinker’s parents fit right in. Charlotte Pinker, a freckled redhead in a whispering silk dress, had the aura of a great Virginia lady even though she lived in a frame house on a narrow lot. She said she was fifty-five, but Jeannie guessed she was probably nearer sixty. Her husband, whom she referred to as “the Major,” was about the same age, but he had the careless grooming and unhurried air of a man who had long retired. He winked roguishly at Jeannie and Lisa and said: “Would you girls like a cocktail?”

His wife had a refined southern accent, and she spoke a little too loudly, as if she were perpetually addressing a meeting. “For mercy’s sake, Major, it’s ten o’clock in the morning!”

He shrugged. “Just trying to get the party off to a good start.”

“This is no party—these ladies are here to study us. It’s because our son is a murderer.”

She called him “our son,” Jeannie noted; but that did not mean a lot. He might still have been adopted. She was desperate to ask about Dennis Pinker’s parentage. If the Pinkers admitted that he was adopted, that would solve half the puzzle. But she had to be careful. It was a delicate question. If she asked too abruptly, they were more likely to lie. She forced herself to wait for the right moment.

She was also on tenterhooks about Dennis’s appearance. Was he Steven Logan’s double or not? She looked eagerly at the photographs in cheap frames around the little living room. All had been taken years ago. Little Dennis was pictured in a stroller, riding a tricycle, dressed for baseball, and shaking hands with Mickey Mouse in Disneyland. There were no pictures of him as an adult. No doubt the parents wanted to remember the innocent boy before he became a convicted murderer. In consequence, Jeannie learned nothing from the photographs. That fair-haired twelve-year-old might now look exactly like Steven Logan, but he could equally well have grown up ugly and stunted and dark.

Both Charlotte and the Major had filled out several questionnaires in advance, and now they had to be interviewed for about an hour each. Lisa took the Major into the kitchen and Jeannie interviewed Charlotte.

Jeannie had trouble concentrating on the routine questions. Her mind kept wandering to Steve in jail. She still found it impossible to believe he could be a rapist. It was not just because that would spoil her theory. She liked the guy: he was smart and engaging, and he seemed kind. He also had a vulnerable side: his bafflement and distress at the news that he had a psychopathic twin had made her want to put her arms around him and comfort him.

When she asked Charlotte if any other family members had ever been in trouble with the law, Charlotte turned her imperious gaze on Jeannie and drawled: “The men in my family have always been terribly violent.” She breathed in through flared nostrils. “I’m a Marlowe by birth, and we are a hot-blooded family.”