The real subtext: I know how to rein in my arrogance and summon up a Humble Brag when it suits me.
I began reading, bracing myself for another shit-storm of jabberwocky. Found, instead, a surprisingly brief exposition.
The Nature of Consciousness
Submitted, hat-in-hand, by Thurston “Thirsty” Nobach, M.A., ABD, Eternal Searcher
Really, sir? sez I to myself.
You’re going to attempt to scale the alps of a meta-question? The answer: Yes, I will because meta is really mini. Because Nietzsche, Sartre, Caligula, et al., had no clue, histrionic egotists that they were, missing the final stop on the tram ride to oblivion.
There is no consciousness.
No self.
No personal boundaries, no rules impervious to exception, no individual existence that can be truncated from the cosmos, no greater meaning other than the transitory explanations with which we blanket ourselves during moments of weakness.
We are one with everything. We are everything.
More important: We are nothing.
Finis, no coda.
Au revoir.
Arrivederci.
Do widzenia.
I created a page link, emailed it to Milo’s computer. It pinged arrival just as he put down the papers.
He rubbed his eyes and flexed his fingers. “How about you sum up?”
“Don’t want to intrude on your consciousness.”
“What?”
“Do yourself a favor and read.”
* * *
—
When he was through, the cigar had been chewed to brown pulp. He tossed it, printed.
“Guy’s nuts. Toss in his dad’s dough and here comes the insanity defense.”
“I promise to testify otherwise.”
He laughed. “Least you didn’t say cart before horse.”
I said, “Notice his nickname?”
“Thirsty.”
“Amanda had a sticker saying that on the back of her textbook. Bet you he prints them up and hands them out as goodies to the faithful.”
“He’s running a cult?”
“Or keeping it personal—mind-games one-on-one.”
“Hmmph. Well, let’s get into his personal space.”
He pulled out his list of generally agreeable judges. No answer at the first two. The third, Giselle Boudreaux, first in her class at Tulane Law and the youngest sib of three New Orleans cops, said, “Now we’re talking. See? All it took was some elbow grease.”
“Doing my best, Your Honor.”
“Everyone claims that. Lucky for you, in this case it’s enough. Write up the address as a comprehensive and email it. I’ll give you telephonic authorization soon as I receive it but you know the drill: Someone has to come by and retrieve actual paper.”
“You bet,” said Milo. “There are two addresses I need access to.”
“Ah, the guy’s rich,” said Boudreaux. “What, something at the beach?”
“If only.” Milo explained.
“A crib in a dorm? You know he’s there for a fact?”
“It’s likely.”
“Sorry, then. Likely isn’t actual. All I need is you’re wrong and I’ve warranted a nonexistent location.”
I fought the impulse to break in. Ah, but there is no reality. No truth. No lies…
Milo said, “If I’m wrong, nothing really lost.”
“No? All I need is some bubblehead reporter having an orgasm over judicial overreach.”
“How ’bout this, Your Honor: I find nothing, the paperwork vanishes.”
“Hmm. I don’t know…all right, but only because my family would yell at me if they find out I wimped out on a murder.”
“Thanks a ton.”
“You’ve also got to give me two separate applications.”
“No prob.”
“For you. I’m the one has to read your sparkling prose, it’s my day off and I’m just about to tee off at Brentwood.”
“I’ll keep it simple—”
“Just funnin’ with you,” said Boudreaux. “This prick did what you say, I want to help fuck him up.”
* * *
—
As he uploaded the warrant applications, I re-read Thurston Nobach’s manifesto. “In terms of the raid, sooner the better.”
He wheeled forty-five degrees from his desk and faced me. “Why?”
“This.” I held out the page.
“Yeah, yeah, more gobbledygook, no good no bad. So what?”
“No self, no consciousness, no real death. I think there’s a message here. He’s making the case for suicide and tailoring it to depressed, impressionable victims like Cassy Booker. And now Amanda, riding her bike over to his place and sticking around. She’s isolated, depressed, has trouble relating to everyone else but worships him. Nobach sniffs that out, ropes her in by appealing to her intellect, and when the time’s right, he supplies the means—a little nip of an opioid cocktail—along with pseudo-intellectual encouragement.”
“You think that’s what happened with Susie?”
“Maybe that was Nobach’s intention. He figured her for a stupid stripper but she was older and toughened by life and less compliant. That could be why Nobach terminated the relationship. Or even worse, she did. In either event, she defied him and earned a nasty death. Something was supposed to happen at that wedding—a payoff, a fake reconciliation, we may never know. The important thing now is, he’s focusing on Amanda, and what Garrett just told us—shutting out her family—says he’s edging her closer to the end.”
He rubbed his face. “What’re you saying? I don’t wait for the warrant?”
“I’m just telling you the way I see it.”
He speed-dialed Giselle Boudreaux, began explaining.
She said, “Life-threatening situation? What the hell do you need me for, call it a welfare check.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
* * *
—
Starting with DMV, he ran a search on Thurston Nobach. One vehicle, a silver, one-year-old BMW M5. Copying the info, he stood, slipped his gun into his hip holster. “Any psychological wisdom on which place to try first?”
I said, “Why choose?”
CHAPTER
44
Ideally, approaching a violent offender is a carefully planned scheme. But no matter how well thought-out, fraught with anxiety.
I’d demolished that by urging fast action on Thirsty Nobach’s premises. Complicated matters further by suggesting two simultaneous raids.
It churned my guts.
It made Milo serene.
As if some seldom-utilized bundle of nerve-fibers in his forebrain had been activated, he stretched, yawned, and reclined in his chair as he summoned Moe Reed, Sean Binchy, and Alicia Bogomil to the interview room where we’d talked to the newlyweds.
Three separate calls, talking to each detective in a smooth, silky tone I’d only heard when he finished a serious meal enhanced by alcohol.
Not what the kids were used to. Binchy and Bogomil paused before saying, “Okay.”
Reed said, “You all right, L.T.?”
“Peachy.”
* * *
—
He loped to the room, arms swinging, whistling an almost-tune, held the door open. “Go in, back in a sec.”
While he was gone, the D’s arrived.
I said, “He went to get something.”
They looked at the four chairs, remained on their feet.
“Got to save one for him,” said Binchy.
“He okay?” said Reed.
“Thinking mode,” I said.
“That’s always a good idea,” said Bogomil, smiling wryly.
Heads turned as Milo charged in toting a whiteboard on an easel. “Class is in session, kids. Some lecture but mostly lab. Sit.”
Three butts hit three chairs. I was fourth.
He walked up to the board. “Here’s the deal.”
Marker in hand, he summed up the evidence on Nobach and jotted down the basics. Three pairs of wide eyes.
“This just happened?” said Bogomil.
“Fresh off the griddle, Alicia. We’ve got one definite residence for the suspect and one likely—a unit in that dorm his daddy owns. Judge Boudreaux says no warrant is necessary because of overwhelming evidence Nobach intends harm to Amanda Burdette. Think of this as an emergency welfare check.”