“Yeah, 1968 to ’72. I ran for DA in ’72. It was close, but I lost. I’m not sorry now.”
“How do you see what happened here, Mr. Metcalf?”
“The first thing I thought about was Joseph Yablonski, the labor leader?”
Graham nodded.
“A crime with a motive, power in that case, disguised as an insane attack. We went over Ed Jacobi’s papers with a fine-tooth comb—Jerry Estridge from the DA’s office and I.
“Nothing. Nobody stood to make much money off Ed Jacobi’s death. He made a big salary and he had some patents paying off, but he spent it almost as fast as it came in. Everything was to go to the wife, with a little land in California entailed to the kids and their descendants. He had a small spendthrift trust set up for the surviving son. It’ll pay his way through three more years of college. I’m sure he’ll still be a freshman by then.”
“Niles Jacobi.”
“Yeah. The kid gave Ed a big pain in the ass. He lived with his mother in California. Went to Chino for theft. I gather his mother’s a flake. Ed went out there to see about him last year. Brought him back to Birmingham and put him in school at Bardwell Community College. Tried to keep him at home, but he dumped on the other kids and made it unpleasant for everybody. Mrs. Jacobi put up with it for a while, but finally they moved him to a dorm.”
“Where was he?”
“On the night of June 28?” Metcalf’s eyes were hooded as he looked at Graham. “The police wondered about that, and so did I. He went to a movie and then back to school. It’s verified. Besides, he has type-O blood. Mr. Graham, I have to pick up my wife in half an hour. We can talk tomorrow if you like. Tell me how I can help you.”
“I’d like to see the Jacobis’ personal effects. Diaries, pictures, whatever.”
“There’s not much of that—they lost about everything in a fire in Detroit before they moved down here. Nothing suspicious—Ed was welding in the basement and the sparks got into some paint he had stored down there and the house went up.
“There’s some personal correspondence. I have it in the lockboxes with the small valuables. I don’t remember any diaries. Everything else is in storage. Niles may have some pictures, but I doubt it. Tell you what—I’m going to court at nine-thirty in the morning, but I could get you into the bank to look at the stuff and come back by for you afterward.”
“Fine,” Graham said. “One other thing. I could use copies of everything to do with the probate: claims against the estate, any contest of the will, correspondence. I’d like to have all the paper.”
“The Atlanta DA’s office asked me for that already. They’re comparing with the Leeds estate in Atlanta, I know,” Metcalf said.
“Still, I’d like copies for myself.”
“Okay, copies to you. You don’t really think it’s money, though, do you?”
“No. I just keep hoping the same name will come up here and in Atlanta.”
“So do I.”
Student housing at Bardwell Community College was four small dormitory buildings set around a littered quadrangle of beaten earth. A stereo war was in progress when Graham got there.
Opposing sets of speakers on the motel-style balconies blared at each other across the quad. It was Kiss versus the 1812 Overture. A water balloon arched high in the air and burst on the ground ten feet from Graham.
He ducked under a clothesline and stepped over a bicycle to get through the sitting room of the suite Niles Jacobi shared. The door to Jacobi’s bedroom was ajar and music blasted through the crack. Graham knocked.
No response.
He pushed open the door. A tall boy with a spotty face sat on one of the twin beds sucking on a four-foot bong pipe. A girl in dungarees lay on the other bed.
The boy’s head jerked around to face Graham. He was struggling to think.
“I’m looking for Niles Jacobi.”
The boy appeared stupefied. Graham switched off the stereo.
“I’m looking for Niles Jacobi.”
“Just some stuff for my asthma, man. Don’t you ever knock?”
“Where’s Niles Jacobi?”