“I have time.”
He sighed. “I’m a gearhead, surprise, surprise,” he began, as if reciting a memorized text. “Did engineering, got my BS. Did even more engineering, got my PhD. But please do not call me Dr. Backhouse. Ever. I’m a professor at Hudson, laboring in the long shadow of NYU, teaching undateables in Comic Con souvenir wear about automobile and truck systems forensics plus a Saturday seminar on metallurgical failure analysis. Yes, it rocks. My university contract allows me to moonlight, and I have a lucrative parallel life as a forensic consultant in accident causation factor analysis (read: expert witness) in all performance-related vehicular matters, principally accident litigation.”
“So you consult for Forenetics?”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Ding-ding. I’m a loathsome consulting expert, in and out, mail me my check. Fred Lobbrecht, ex–Collision Reconstruction Unit state trooper—you know all that—was on salaried staff of Forenetics. Started back in February. Good man.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly,” said Heat. After a decent interval, she moved on. “Fill me in on this whistle-blow issue.”
The professor’s eyes flared at Rook. “You said this was going to be in confidence until publication. Who else knows—besides her?”
Rook pushed back. “You tell me.”
Nikki intervened. “Mr. Backhouse, this is a police matter. Two people have been killed.”
“Two?” He reared back like a horse that just caught a whiff of smoke in the stall. “What the fuck is happening?” Then he scanned the windows of the van, looking for fresh danger.
Although Heat hadn’t intended to probe him yet for what he might know about the first murder, now that it was on the table, she followed that thread. “There was a suspicious death that may, or may not, be related to Fred Lobbrecht’s. Have you ever heard the name Lon King?” She watched him process the name blandly but saw the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. “What?”
“L-O-N K-I-N-G. It’s an anagram of Klingon. Sorry, it’s a thing I do, I can’t help it. Word scrambles.” He tapped his temple. “It’s busy in here.”
“Did you ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“Did Fred Lobbrecht ever mention him?”
“If he had, I would have heard of him; ergo, no.”
Heat decided to leave the matter for now. “I want you to tell me about the whistle-blow.”
“There was a team of us who were tasked to investigate an alleged wrongful death due to a defect in an automobile’s stability-control system. The company I consult for, Forenetics, got hired by the lawyer representing the family of the victim. Just when we started to make some progress—even doing our own autopsy on the car—the family settled out of court. End of case, end of investigation.” Backhouse sat up tall, becoming animated. “But see, it got under my skin. So I had my team keep digging. We saw two patterns. First, a little bulge on the scale of accidents reported to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration involving spontaneous vehicle rollovers. And second, a matching pattern of out-of-court settlements.”
Nikki finally felt a connection with Wilton Backhouse. His investigative process consisting of observing patterns and breaks in those patterns was what she was all about. “So, lots of cars flipping for no reason, lots of money going out.”