Chapter 39
CHAMBERS HAD DRIVEN PAST Tulane University countless times—heading down Audubon or Calhoun Street on a case or a personal errand—but he’d never actually set foot on campus.
That was about to change. He’d decided to let Pendergast and his chauffeur drive them around, Rolls or no.
He didn’t give a fuck anymore how it looked, especially since this was Pendergast’s wild goose chase.
Speaking of that, this was day three of three…
and so far they’d come up with nothing. Chambers wondered how Pendergast would take it when this day ended with, once again, zip to show for it.
The Rolls drove slowly down Freret Street—getting the usual number of stares—until Pendergast murmured to the driver to pull over at the intersection of West Road.
They got out and Chambers looked around.
It was a pleasant Tuesday morning for late summer, not unbearably hot, and although a few students were walking here and there the campus was obviously quiet, gearing up for the fall term, and there was a drowsy haze over the ornate buildings of rusticated stone.
Pendergast noted Chambers’s curiosity. “All—or most—of these structures were built after the school of H. H. Richardson. Hard to believe he was the architectural darling of the late nineteenth century.”
Chambers nodded, wondering if his wife would have known that. She probably would, he decided.
They walked across a grassy quad, heading toward a massive building that stood out from the others for its modernist appearance.
“Graduate library for the sciences,” Pendergast informed him as they climbed the steps.
“For the sciences? How many libraries are there?”
“Two. The reason I’ve chosen this one, however, is because it houses the graduate school’s reference department.”
Chambers fell silent. Pendergast hadn’t told him exactly what the game plan was for today, and he was damned if he was going to ask.
It was much more enjoyable thinking about what tomorrow would bring—back in the FBI offices, poring over new homicide files, with Estevez no doubt looking on approvingly.
Estevez had left a voice message on his home number the night before, asking for an update and pointedly wondering why he had not seen them the last couple of days.
Thank God tomorrow would be his turn, per their bargain.
He followed Pendergast into the cool shelter of the library, then followed a winding path upstairs and down corridors until they came to the reference section.
Pendergast led the way in, approached an information desk, and asked where the course catalogs were kept.
Getting the necessary directions, he made his way to a bookcase sandwiched between massive chemical and medical encyclopedias.
He stopped before the bookcase and slowly moved his head from top to bottom.
“All colleges and universities print course catalogs for each semester,” he said.
“With course descriptions, professors’ names, and class schedules—to help students choose the classes they are interested in or required to take. ”
Big of you to explain. “And how does that affect us, exactly?”
“We know from his girlfriend that Wickman switched from psychology as an undergrad to parapsychology for his graduate studies—and that she’d stoked his interest in PSI.
Beyond that, we know nothing about what he did here before dropping out…
except we can assume that, for those two years, he’d have been actively taking courses.
That would have been 1985 and 1986.” He paused, examining the shelves.
He walked down one line of bound catalogs, then back up again. He began shaking his head. “Shame.”
“What?”
“It would appear all the catalogs for those two years are missing—as are the catalogs for the preceding years.”
“They’ve probably been misfiled.”
Pendergast offered to let Chambers check for himself.
With a sigh, he came forward. The top shelves held ancient, foxed catalogs with cloth bindings.
As his eye traveled down the shelves, the colors, fonts, and spines changed with the years—a microcosm of changing fashions in typography and design—but Pendergast was right: he could find no catalogs for 1985 or 1986.
“Shall we have a word with the reference librarian?” Pendergast said.
The woman behind the desk expressed surprise; went to take a look for herself; disappeared into a private room for about ten minutes, then returned to say she was sorry, but there was no sign of them.
“And there are no syllabi for those years, either,” she added.
“How odd. You’ll have to go to the humanities library—I believe they have backup copies. ”
“Where can we find more general information on Tulane’s PSI program?” Pendergast asked. “It was rather famous in its day.”
The woman thought for a moment. She picked up a phone and made a call.
This produced another reference librarian, who knew nothing and who in time produced yet another librarian.
This person finally seemed to know something.
He was younger than the others and dressed casually.
“They threw out a lot of that stuff, departmental memos, catalogs, and the like, in a purge a couple of years ago,” he said.
“There’s only so much space… decisions had to be made.
” He lowered his voice. “And as I understand it, this was one of the easier ones to make. The whole PSI program eventually embarrassed the university, fell under a cloud. The catalogs should have been retained, but who knows, maybe they tossed them as well.”
“Is there anyone remaining,” Pendergast asked, “on the faculty from that department?”
“That would be Dr. Telligren,” said the librarian. “He survived the purge—brilliant man and a good professor.”
The graduate library of the humanities was three blocks away. As they threaded their way between dormitories along narrow streets, Chambers shook his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you can’t check books out from a reference library—right?”
“That is correct. You can access them, but they don’t leave the library.”
“Then they must have been stolen.”
“So it would appear. There were entries for them in the master catalog.”
“But who the hell would steal shit like that? It’s crazier than collecting phone books.”
Pendergast said nothing.