The man smiled, delighted to have gotten Duran’s attention. Reaching into his coat, he came up with a business-card and handed it to his adversary.

There were a lot of numbers for such a small card: telephone, fax, mobile, and pager. In the upper right-hand corner, in what Duran guessed was an attempt at humor, was the detective’s logo—a corny fingerprint under a corny magnifying glass.

“Mr. Bonilla is a private investigator,” Adrienne explained. “And I’m a lawyer and… well, you can see where this is going. We’re going to put you away.”

Duran shook his head in disbelief. Put me away!? “Look,” he said. “I understand how you feel about… what happened… but, you’re wrong about me, and you’re wrong about my not being licensed. It’s in my office—on the wall, next to my diplomas.”

Bonilla scoffed. “Lemme show you something,” he said, waggling a leather portfolio. “You mind if we sit down for a minute?”

Duran shook his head, and gestured toward the couch in the living room. Once seated, Bonilla made a production of opening his portfolio, then laying it down on the coffee table. “The first thing I did,” he said, extracting several sheets of paper, “was check with the District’s Medical Board.” He donned a pair of reading glasses and peered at the documents in his hand. “And when I ask them about you, what they want to know is, are you a psychotherapist or a psychologist? Because there’s a big difference! Turns out, any wacko can hang out a shingle as a ‘therapist.’ But a clinical psychologist, which is what you’re supposed to be—that’s another story. Because, one: you got to have a doctoral degree. And two: you gotta complete an internship. After that, you have to do supervised, post-doctoral work. And, finally, you gotta pass a licensing exam. And you, Doc—you ain’t done any of this stuff.”

Duran was silent for a moment. Then he leaned forward in his chair. “You must not be very good at what you do,” he suggested.

“No?”

“No. Because, if you were, you’d know I was magna cum laude—”

“You were magna cum bullshit!” Bonilla interjected. “When the board said it never heard of you, I figured, what the hell—it’s probably an oversight. Maybe you’re registered somewhere else—Virginia, Maryland—Alaska, for all I know. Or you forgot to renew. So I check with the A.P.A. And guess what? They never heard of you, either. So that’s when I thought, Hmmmnn. Better check out the diplomas, the ones our friend here saw. Brown, right? And Wisconsin.”

“That’s right.”

“No, Jim—that ain’t right. For openers, you didn’t graduate from Brown. In fact, you never even went there.” Bonilla removed a page from his portfolio, and pushed it across the coffee table.

Duran picked it up, and began to read. The letter seemed to be authentic, but… it couldn’t be. According to the registrar, no one named Jeffrey Duran had attended Brown between 1979 and 1993. A check with academic advisers for the class of 1990 produced not a single transcript, nor did the office of residential life have any records associated with a student by that name. The letter thanked Mr. Bonilla for bringing to the university’s attention the inaccurate inclusion of Mr. Duran’s name on its “base list” of 1990 graduates.

Duran couldn’t believe it. “They think—”

“You hacked your way in,” Adrienne told him.

“But… they’re wrong. It’s a mistake.”

Bonilla’s grin revealed small yellow teeth. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s gotta be a mistake. You went to Brown, only you never took out a library book, registered for a class, or signed up for a food plan. Like I said, ‘magna cum bullshit.’“ The detective raised his eyebrows, withdrew a second sheet of paper from the portfolio, and slapped it down on the table.

“Wisconsin never heard of you either,” he said.

Duran picked up the paper, which bore the school’s letterhead with its familiar logo: an eye, surrounded by the words, Numen Lumen.

“This is impossible,” Duran insisted, wagging his head, as if it were a pendulum. “What is this? I mean—” he held up the papers. “Did you write these yourself? Why would you do that?”

Bonilla made a little clicking noise with his mouth and shook his head, beaming at Duran with an expression of faked admiration. “You gotta hand it to him, Adrienne. This guy’s good. I mean, you don’t know better, you’d have to say he’s affronted!”

“I think you ought to leave,” Duran told them, getting wearily to his feet.

“Hear me out,” Bonilla insisted, “because I saved the best for last.” There was nothing amused in the man’s face now and he looked at Duran with the sharp, malevolent focus of a bird of prey. “All these institutions that never heard of you got me worrying (well, I’m the anxious type, as Miz Cope here will tell you). I had a feeling, y’know? So, knowing your alleged name and your actual address, I ran a credit check with Experian. Cost me thirty-five bucks. All I was lookin’ for was a header—just the top line.” He placed another document on the table, and watched as Duran picked it up. “Name, address, and D-O-B. Where you were born. And your Social.”

Duran frowned. “My what?”

“Your social security number,” Adrienne explained.

“Like I said: it’s the top line.” Bonilla grinned in a bright, unfriendly way. “And the next thing I do, I get on the Web, and—bim bam boom—I’m at the site for the Social Security Death Index. Takes about thirty seconds. And guess what?”

Duran didn’t want to play anymore. “I think you ought to go,” he said. “Not yet, Jeff, I’m just getting to the punch line.” Bonilla stood up, crouched like a batter and raised his hands to shoulder height. “You didn’t attend Brown.” His arms came round in an arc, as if he were swinging a bat—and missing. “Whoosh! Turns out, you ain’t no Badger!” Another swing, and: “Whoof! And last, but definitely not least, you ain’t ever Jeffrey Duran.” The detective reached into his portfolio, and extracted a piece of paper. “Check it out,” he said, and handed it to Duran.

Who saw, at a glance, that it was his own death certificate. A somewhat blurry photocopy, but nonetheless, a Certificate of Death for

Jeffrey Aaron Duran

Date of Birth: Aug. 26, 1968

Place of birth: Washington, D.C.

Date of Death: April 4, 1970

Place of death: Carlisle, Pennsylvania,

Occupation: N/A

The cause of death was listed as “Massive trauma (auto).” The physician of record: Willis Straight, M.D. There was more, but Duran stopped reading.

“In case you’re wondering,” Bonilla taunted, “you’re buried in Rock Creek Cemetery. ‘Sometimes Heaven Calls To Its Breast Those Loved Best.’”