The Professor (7 page)

Triumph surged through him. He could always spot the ones with a secret. She’d held herself out as different, demure. But she was a slut like all the other women. She had risen late from her lover’s bed to come to him.

She will be mine.

Mick glanced at his watch. He was cutting it close. Dr. Spindler had called just as that ridiculous session with the shrink broke up. The ME narrowed Geiger’s time of death to between midnight and three, consistent with the other victims. Mick tapped his hands against the steering wheel and nudged the cruise-control setting higher. With the SLED cruiser, he wasn’t likely to be pulled over, but he didn’t like abusing the privilege.

His meeting with the captain was in fifteen minutes. SLED occupied a large campus on the northwest side of Columbia. Most of the traffic was commuters streaming out of downtown, heading home to the suburbs, or people traveling to the mountains for the fall weekend. If traffic wasn’t backed up too bad around the retail zoo at Harbison, he should make it on time. He’d update his boss on the murders and then figure out a way to tap-dance out of the political minefield around that debacle at Douglass.

Meg Connelly popped into his mind, but he pushed the thought aside. Later. That whole episode was too weird to get into right now. He had enough weirdness with Didi Hammond and her fountain frolic.

An hour later, Mick left the captain’s office with relief. Most of the time had been devoted to the Hammonds—both the politically connected family and their delinquent daughter, Didi. An expression that groaned
shit
had crossed his boss’s face more than once, but the word never came out of his mouth. And that particular monkey was now on the captain’s back rather than his.

The captain had also pointedly told Mick to take some time off. “Good detectives work hard,” he said, “but they learn how to stay sane. They know when to go home and have a life. An overstressed, overtired, obsessed agent is no good to anyone.”

Mick agreed completely. He just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He pushed open the door to the lab. For someone so meticulous in his work, Dr. Jason Clark’s slovenly appearance was always a surprise. Young detectives tended to underestimate him. Maybe it was just his weight, but Clark’s clothes fit poorly. The white, short-sleeved polyester shirt strained across his belly and the too-short slacks pinched at the crotch as the specialist perched on his stool behind the microscope.

Clark looked up and dragged a hand through limp, brown hair that needed a trim. “Ah, Mick, you made it. Come on in.”

“I was afraid you might’ve already left.”

“I had a few things to wrap up. I didn’t mind waiting.”

Several lengths of duct tape were spread, adhesive-side up, on trays around his workstation. Even without the microscope, Mick could see short, blond hairs caught in the closest one, pulled from the victim when the tapes were removed.

“I looked at the fibers on her skin first.”

Mick nodded, his attention still on the tape.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you much there.”

He knew Clark’s nuances. The scientist had found something on the tape, but they had to finish with the other fibers first.

“They were from a tarp, the kind you can find in any Walmart in the country.”

“Nothing distinctive, impossible to trace.”

“Pretty much.” Clark shifted his bulk and gestured at the trays. “Our unsub used duct tape, another generic commodity, to restrain all three victims.”

Mick nodded again. “The first two were bound to their beds. The last one was restrained, but cut loose. The tape was still around her wrists and ankles when we found her.”

“Dust, hair and skin cells are visible on the tape under ultraviolet light,” Clark said. “I’ll isolate those. Probably they’re the vic’s, but maybe we’ll get lucky. This is what I wanted to show you.” He pointed to the tape edge.

Mick studied the length of tape. Burgundy fibers, flecked with tan particles, ran along the entire upper edge of the piece. “What is this?”

“It’s on all of victim three’s pieces. It could be a leftover from the manufacturing process, something misaligned when it was made.”

“You obviously don’t think so.”

“You’re right,” Clark replied cheerfully. “Think about a roll of tape for a minute.” His free hand mimed holding a roll and turning it over. “When you place it on its side, the entire surface picks up traces of whatever it’s pressing against.”

He gave the scientist a questioning look. “And?”

“The tape from victim one was clean, leading me to think it was a new roll. The unsub probably unwrapped it there. The second set of tapes has leather on the edges.”

“Those tan specks?”

“Correct. I figured he carried the tape in a backpack or a satchel. I understand you think your killer may be a student, so that would be consistent. The specks turned out to be belting leather, though, which you rarely see in a book bag.”

“Some of the higher-end day packs use it,” he said. “And lots of briefcases and suitcases. Not many guys are going to carry a suitcase to a murder, though.”

Clark nodded. “These burgundy fibers are nylon. At first, I again thought, book bag. You’ve seen those packs with a nylon top and leather bottom?”

“Yeah.”

“But the denier’s completely wrong for that. The density is much higher.”

“So what kind of fiber is it?”

“Take a look.” Clark placed a slide under the microscope, and Mick peered through the eyepieces. “What do you see?”

“It’s smooth, sorta triangle-shaped.”

“Correct. The delta shape is characteristic of carpet fibers. Nylon six, six to be exact. This fiber’s cross section and light birefringence make it a Dupont fiber commonly used in automobile carpets.”

Mick sat back and rubbed his cheek. His fingers rasped against his beard and he dropped his hand. “Not many cars have burgundy interiors. Didn’t that go out with the nineties?”

“Try the eighties.” Clark moved the slide to a holder and placed it in a file. “He probably dropped the roll in the trunk. The color has faded, but not as much as the floor mats would.”

“That doesn’t fit. Our profile makes the killer white-collar. He’s taking victims from upscale neighborhoods. It’s his comfort zone. Someone in those neighborhoods isn’t going to drive a twenty-five-year-old beater.”

“What about a twenty-five-year-old classic? Say, a Mustang. It’ll be a domestic car, not foreign.”

“Why?”

“Jaguar used wool carpets. Triumph used a different brand of nylon.” He waved his hands expansively to include the remaining universe of automobiles.

Mick considered Clark’s words and nodded. “If the guy’s in his thirties, his age fits the profile. A hot car from back then could be compensation. I doubt he had one as a teenager.”

Clark smiled agreement. “Since the wheels of bureaucracy grind to a screeching halt at five o’clock on Friday afternoons, I already turned in your request to the DMV for a list of all the 1980s cars registered in the Upstate. It’s set up to hit your e-mail account as soon as it finishes processing.” He grinned. “It should be a monster file.”

“Thanks, I think.” Between sorting car records and Emily Geiger’s funeral, his weekend was going to suck. “Can’t wait.”

“It gets even better.” Clark pulled in his chin as he grinned and crossed his arms. His neck blossomed into multiple rolls that sagged over his collar. “There’s a specialty finish on the fibers. It’s worn, but I’ve picked up the chemical formulation. I sent it to the manufacturer about an hour ago. I should hear back early next week. The results should narrow your list.”

“You’re my hero.” Two million cars just dropped to twenty thousand.

“And don’t you forget it, glory boy,” Clark said. He turned back to his microscope. “Go on, get out of here. It’s Friday. It’s late. You must have better things to do, a hot date or something.”

Why did people keep saying that to him? he wondered as he headed toward his car. People were so quick to make assumptions. He was single and women seemed to find him attractive. Therefore, he must be a party animal with a love life to rival a Hollywood star.

Was he making similar assumptions about this killer? The thought brought a sobering pause. Did he need to seriously consider possibilities other than a student?

He pulled out of the parking lot. Rush-hour traffic had peaked while he was in the lab, and Broad River Road traffic was moving. At I-20, he made a quick decision. Rather than traveling the Interstate, he swung onto Sunset and headed for the southeast side of town. Soon the chaos of new construction along Sumter Highway fell behind, and he settled into the old back-roads route to the beach.

As the miles passed, he unwound from the week’s tension and let his mind drift through what they knew about the killer. He’d heard too much about the bleak childhoods of these criminals. Too many people—including the assailant—wanted to justify their behavior as an unavoidable consequence of their childhood. Nearly all serial killers and sexual predators came from abusive or otherwise dysfunctional families. It didn’t excuse their actions. Too many other people rose above similar circumstances. There was no correlation that said: given this background, these people must commit violent crimes.

No, it was the ultimate selfishness. These men did what they did because they wanted to. It gave them satisfaction or pleasure they didn’t get in any other aspect of their lives. It made them feel good, regardless of the consequences to others. Once they crossed the line and broke a law, they forfeited whatever claim they had to victim status. They became just another criminal.

Lake City came and went with gasoline and fresh coffee. He returned to his musing. How were they going to stop this killer? Where was he hiding? Most human
predators hunted in areas where they felt safe. They blended in with the locals. They knew the roads and the traffic patterns, where the cops hung out. They understood the habits of their prey, because they observed them every day as they went about their less-lethal activities.

The first two victims lived in nice apartment complexes with decent security: well-lit and maintained, with good locks on the doors and windows. The bodies’ discoveries had prompted immediate hysteria in the surrounding community, followed by the disappearance of children from the sidewalks and yards. Geiger’s abduction from the mall had caused a similar evacuation. Although the victims were young adults rather than children, Mick couldn’t blame the parents. The instinct to protect was strong. On the other hand, the demands for resolution increased exponentially with each grisly discovery.

More dark miles passed. A car roared up on his bumper, then quickly backed off, assuming he was patrolling. The lights annoyed him, so he eased to the side of the road and let the car pass.

By Kingsburg, his mind was again roaming freely. White-collar neighborhoods. College kids. Leather and twenty-five-year-old carpets. Why not a professor rather than a student? A briefcase and a muscle car. Students would invite a recognized professor into their apartments. If given a plausible story, they’d step outside a mall with one. But how did a professor meet women from three different schools?

When he got the DMV list of cars, he could cross-reference it with the professors from the three colleges. He’d already asked Frank to look at possible connections among the schools, a recent transfer or something.

The first outlines of the killer were starting to form.

Finally.

Friday night

Mick stopped in front of the house where he’d grown up and cut the engine. His sports coat and tie had hit the backseat when he’d stopped for gas outside Lake City. Rolling up his sleeves, he climbed from the car, then stretched to ease his cramped muscles.

The house lay half-hidden beneath a sprawling, ancient oak. A cluster of palmettos, myrtles, and overgrown azaleas obscured the front. Spanish moss, banished when his father was alive, had reclaimed the tree and dangled in a ghostly cloud. Although the lots were large in this neighborhood—nearly an acre each—the house looked smaller every time he saw it. It was hard to believe five kids had grown up in a space not much bigger than his condo. Of course, they’d wandered in and out of their friends’ houses in a freewheeling innocence that was unheard of today. Mick figured he’d probably slept more nights in a hammock on the screened porch and at his best friend’s house than in the bedroom he’d shared with his brothers.

A gibbous moon hung above the tree line, pearly in the thin bands of clouds that hid the stars. The faint light gleamed on the crushed shell drive. They hadn’t needed an outdoor light when they were kids. The oyster shells reflected enough light for them to ease onto the porch, whatever time they straggled home.

He identified the cars in the drive. His mother’s sedate Buick was in the carport. Vince and Laurie drove the soccer-mom Suburban. Colin had the BMW instead of his ’Vette. Apparently, he had his son this weekend. The brand-new minivan must belong to Shaun and Maureen. Tricia’s ancient Civic was last in line. It stayed all girled up with dangly things on the mirror and assorted bottles of fruity stuff that knocked his head back when he opened the door.

The whole gang was here.

It’d be bedlam inside.

Mick leaned against the hood, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The ocean was too far away to smell, but the tidal creek and the surrounding swamps lent a pungent tang to the air that said “home.” A soft breeze whispering through the pines behind the house lifted his hair. The air was thick with moisture, and he smelled rain riding the breeze.

The front door opened, spilling noise into the yard. A silhouette moved to the screen door. “Michael? Is that you?”

Only his mother called him Michael. “Out here.”

The door creaked on hinges that had long ago given up hope of lubrication. She crossed the yard, staying on the path to avoid the sand spurs. “What are you doing?”

He hugged her and kissed her temple. His mother’s rich brown hair had streaks of gray now. Years of Carolina sun had weathered her skin to a web of fine lines, but her blue eyes were still as vivid as a girl’s. “Enjoying the quiet.”

She chuckled. “Not much of that inside.”

“It’ll be quiet soon enough. Last one’s getting ready to fly the coop.”

“Tricia? She’s not gone yet. Vince and Laurie are just up the block. Don’t worry, with their kids, I have plenty to keep me busy.” She leaned against the car beside him and studied him in the faint light. “Is it a bad case?”

He gave a small sigh. “Aren’t they all?”

For a few minutes, they listened to the night sounds without speaking.

“Mom?” he asked finally. “When you and Dad got married, how did you know he was the right one?”

She took her time before answering. “Marriage isn’t all passion and roses, Michael. It’s commitment. Sharing goals and beliefs. It’s two people loving each other enough to see each other through the bad times. And having someone to share the good times. To create the good times. When you find the person you want to do those things with, you know.”

He nodded silently, his eyes fixed on the house.

“Have you found somebody?”

Images of Meg filled his mind: the confident woman who stood up and spoke her mind, the laughing coffee-shop companion, the passionate woman in his arms, and the terrified child who’d run. Which one was the real Meg? All of them? None? “Maybe.”

It was one of the things he loved about his mother. She understood without asking a lot of questions. “It’s not easy being married to a cop.”

“You never did beat around the bush.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t do any good.”

“I know.” Being a cop was one of the reasons he was still single. Not many women could handle not knowing if their husband would come home at the end of his shift. He’d seen what it had done to his mother. A Wildlife officer’s duties included tracking down fugitives when they took to the swamps. His father had died while wearing his uniform. With a start, he realized what his mother’s collapse said about the depth of his parents’ love.

“Let’s go in before they send out a search party,” she said.

Noise, light and people swirled through the small house. His brothers had ESPN blaring in the cramped living room. The women chattered in the kitchen, oblivious to the children who bounced between the two groups, excited by the presents and the noisy confusion.

“Happy birthday, Squirt.” He kissed his sister and looked into her smiling face. She had their mother’s chestnut-brown hair and the O’Shaughnessy blue eyes. “Finally legal and you’re spending the evening at home with us?”

She grinned. “Did you really think Mom would pass up the opportunity to get y’all over here for a party? I’m going out with my friends tomorrow.”

“This is your brother the cop speaking. Two words: designated driver.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stay home and you can do it. In fact, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”

He was already shaking his head. “I have to get back tomorrow. This case…” He didn’t want to think about death and monsters tonight.

Tricia shuddered. “I don’t want to talk about it. How about I call Amy after dinner? We can ditch the kids and go get a drink or something later.”

“Don’t worry about my love life. I can still find my own dates.”

“Yeah, I see all the women you bring home.”

Shaun clapped him on the shoulder. “We were getting ready to eat without you. Come help me with the steaks.”

His wife drifted by, their baby on her shoulder. “Make the biggest one rare. I’m still eating for two.”

Shaun tweaked her full breast, kissed her and stroked the baby’s velvety head.

Maybe kids aren’t so bad
, Mick thought, watching them. He grabbed the platter of steaks and headed for the backyard grill. As he immersed himself in his family, he wondered if these trips back home were an escape from the harsh reality of his daily life or if this was real and he labored in an endless bad dream.