Conspiracy Theory(27)
“No, I’m trying to tell you that Adelphos House was founded by and is run by Tony Ross’s sister.”
“What?” Bennis looked truly shocked.
John Jackman flipped through a few pages of his little notebook. “Anne Ross Wyler,” he said. “A year older than her brother. Came out at the Philadelphia Assembly. Graduated from Wellesley College in 1971. Married Dutton Wyler in 1980. Divorced him in 1985—”
“He was one of those people,” Bennis said. “They never do anything. They get born rich and they go to parties.”
“Not what the Ross siblings were into, I take it,” John said. “Anyway, the details of her life between ’85 and ’96 are sketchy at best, but in ’96 she went to work for a settlement house in New York. She stayed there two years. Then she came back to Philadelphia and opened Adelphos.”
“I think Bennis’s original objection still stands,” Gregor said. “That’s a very tenuous connection. How would Tibor’s interest in doing something to help Adelphos House connect to Tony Ross’s murder?”
“How would anything connect to Tony Ross’s murder?” John said. “It’s not like we know what we’re doing here, and the FBI doesn’t know either, no matter what they try to tell me. The point is that the connections exist, and we have to follow them up.”
“Even though the two methods seem to be so at odds with each other?” Gregor asked. “Professional quality in the murder of Tony Ross. Amateur fun with explosives in the bombing of Holy Trinity Church.”
“We’ve got to start somewhere,” John said, “and that’s true with the problem with the church as well as with the murder of Tony Ross. Look, we found pieces of the bombs. We might be able to trace some of the materials. It’s a long shot, but we might. In the meantime, do you have any information besides the connections to the Ross murder that might help us out? Has there been any vandalism? Nasty words spray-painted on the church, or on Tibor’s apartment? Hate mail?”
“Of course not,” Bennis said. “This is Cavanaugh Street, for God’s sake.”
“What about the people who live here?” John asked. “And don’t tell me it’s Cavanaugh Street. Has anybody had an argument with Father Tibor? Has he been riding anybody’s case, come down on sin a little hard lately, had a dispute with a tenant, anything?”
“He doesn’t have any tenants,” Gregor said, “and the church doesn’t either.”
“What about that stuff he writes?” John was being patient. “Has he been writing letters to the editor about politics lately? About Armenia? About September eleventh?”
“I don’t think he writes letters to the editor,” Bennis said.
“How about the Internet?” John tried again.
Gregor looked quickly at Bennis, and then away. He always forgot about the Internet, because he used it so seldom himself. “I forgot about the Internet. He does talk politics on the Internet, but not the way you’d think. He goes to this chat room—”
“It’s not a chat room, it’s a newsgroup,” Bennis said. “A Usenet newsgroup. And it’s not about politics, it’s about mystery stories. Rec.arts.mystery.”
John Jackman took out his pen. “Repeat that for me, please. WWW …”
“No,” Bennis said. “It’s not a Web site. There’s no www. It’s a newsgroup. I’m not sure how you get on it usually, but on AOL you do control-K. Then you type in newsgroups. Then you can find it by clicking on search all newsgroups and asking for it. I’m probably not making much sense. I could show you if we got to a computer.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got guys in the department who know all about this stuff. Rec.arts.mystery.”
Bennis spelled it for him. “It’s his favorite thing to do when he isn’t reading.”
“Mystery stories doesn’t sound like what we’re looking for,” John said.
“Oh, they discuss everything,” Bennis told him. “And I do mean everything. Mystery stories, and theology and, yes, politics sometimes. I’ve forgotten all about it. He’s been in the hospital for days, and nobody’s told them. They get all involved with each other. They’ll be concerned.”
“One of them could be something else than concerned.”
“I suppose.” Bennis did not look happy. “It would be terrible if all this ended up being connected to RAM.”
“What?” John said.
“RAM,” Gregor repeated. “Rec.arts.mystery. RAM.”