Shand was recalling something.
He said, “We were executing a search warrant on his apartment when we got the call that he had attacked you. There was some pretty messed-up stuff in there. Bondage, S and M, and all that. Men, women, group sex—the whole gamut.” He shook his large head. “Thacker was a troubled guy. You’re lucky to be alive. Go home and sleep well. If we need anything, we know where to find you.”
Troubled. That’s the tactful way Baltimore PD described their ghettos. That’s how Kaitlyn had described Lindsay. I decided, right then and there, to hate that word.
Some lady in a uniform came into the room and took scrapings from under my nails. On her way out the door, she shared a look with the detectives which told them that at first glance there didn’t appear to be any skin present. Tests would have to be run to confirm that fact.
Hartz stood and opened the door. I walked out into a lobby I hadn’t seen before. I had been brought in through a rusty back door. Kaitlyn was pacing back and forth biting a nail. When she saw me she did a double-take. I had forgotten about my face. I should have had the detectives warn her.
She ran up to me and I saw tears forming in her eyes. There was something on the tip of my tongue I was going to say to her, right before the blinding pain of her embrace wiped the slate clean. Whatever it was vanished. I said the only words that came to mind.
“Come on. Take me home.”
Mile 9
The sloping ramp onto the West End Bridge takes us over a minute to overcome. I lean forward and have no problems conquering the ramp, because on the bridge—or maybe just past it—is the second place it might happen. The knee that got kicked by Steven sends me a few warning signals on the ascent, but never fails. A lot of people train hard and put in all of the miles, but they don’t account for hills. You can spot those people, stopped and wasted, at the halfway point of the bridge. Just a short distance to the south is where all three rivers converge and the wind is swirling here. I keep my head on a swivel because I want to see it coming. I need to see it. How can there be true closure if you don’t face the consequences head on?
When you reach the point where the bridge flattens out, you can turn your head to the left, look down the Allegheny and see a snapshot of the city, its history, its future. Modern sport boats and fiberglass kayaks take care to avoid rusty barges that haul coal up and down the river past exasperated brown and slate factories. Vehicular traffic runs along the shores of the river and the downtown streets. Trains rumble in all directions, on tracks that rest under skies that loan space to passing airliners. Old architecture blends with the new, and steel intertwines with brick. International technology corporations tower over plumbing supply stores.
Most days I would appreciate all of this. Most days. This morning, I scan the area for signs of distress. I see plenty of victims. No shortage of them here. On both sides of the bridge, I see lone individuals regurgitating breakfast. The climb got to them. Several are wearing paper bibs for the half-marathon, some for the full distance. Those who are participating in the relay fly by, wondering what the big deal is. Of course, most of them have just begun their portion of the journey and don’t understand what lies ahead of them over the next six to eight miles.
The wreckage is massive this year, and the sweat in my eyes makes it hard for me to sort through the sick and injured. The long ramp wipes out scores of competitors who move to the sides of the huge yellow bridge. Some will return to the course, some will hobble back to their cars. But I’m only looking for one person. Just one. I have to find him sometime over the next eighteen miles.
I have to find him, because he has to answer for what he has done.
I have to see his face when he comes to the realization that it was me.
I have to know that he knows—I beat him in the end.
There had been another assailant waiting for me at the house upon my return. When I came into the front hallway, Sigmund caught me off-guard and plunged head-first into my groin. I was shocked to find that my body could still bend over in pain. Before I had time to appreciate that small victory, my nemesis took advantage of my new position and landed a two-pawed blow to my head.
Man’s best friend, my ass.
Kaitlyn waited patiently downstairs while I showered, dabbed my cuts and scrapes with hydrogen peroxide, and swallowed a couple of painkillers. When I ached my way to the living room, I gave my wife a replay of the assault, leaving out any mention of blood spurting and bone breaking. In the car, I had told her that Steven was the attacker, and the questions that came back at me were too much for me to handle. She saw that I needed to decompress and backed off to give me time. Sometimes being married to a psychologist is wonderful.
Kaitlyn had calmed down during the ride and she teetered between sympathy for me and rage against Steven, neither of which was useful. I was sorry that Steven was dead, but he did try to kill me. That action deserved an unmistakable reaction. Even if exposing his private life had set him off—and I had my doubts about that—trying to give me tenure at the Afterlife Community College was taking things too far. As for her rage against Steven . . . well, the guy was on a slab. There was nothing more that could be done to him.
When I told Kaitlyn what the detectives had shared with me about Steven’s involvement with Lindsay’s death, she wasn’t surprised. She reminded me that the man was obviously troubled, evidenced by his attack on me, and I couldn’t discount the possibility that I was wrong about them not having a relationship. Not wanting to debate the issue, and noticing that the pain pills were about as effective as breath mints, I let it go.
While Kaitlyn prepared for bed, I sent an email to my department head stating that I would be taking a sick day. I followed that up with an email to my colleague, Brent Lancaster, the former Secret Service agent, asking him to put up a note in each of my classrooms that the lecture was cancelled for the day, and no, my graduate assistant would not be available to take care of that. I guessed that after the news got out, he would never ask me about the Proximity Pummeling Theory again.
We went to bed a short while later, but I was too worked up to sleep. Around two, I slid out of bed, threw on a pair of sweat pants and headed downstairs. It’s drilled into police officers, firefighters, and other first responders: after a traumatic incident, you don’t want to use anything that will bring you down or pick you up. No caffeine, and absolutely, positively no alcohol. So I grabbed myself a tall scotch and went into a guest bedroom we had converted into my home office.
I tried. I really tried to accept it. I had been out of the game for a couple of years. But I had spent well over ten years of my life learning to read people. To anticipate their actions. To see the warning signs and intervene at the most opportune time. The fact that Steven attacked me wasn’t what was occupying my thoughts. You can never truly know what a man is capable of when he feels cornered or betrayed. I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t have believed it before he came after me, but I knew differently now.
It was when I had told him that he wasn’t a killer and he moved his arm away from his face. I saw it as clear as anything I’ve seen in my life. I was dead wrong. He was a killer and he had killed. He had killed Lindsay, and I had been a witness to the precipitating event. When she walked into my office, it was a foregone conclusion. Her life was over.
So I drank my scotch, listened to Sigmund snore, tolerated the stinging sensation on my lips, and tried to accept a new reality. Steven was guilty and the DNA test would prove it. I had no doubt. Maybe he was dating Lindsay and he was the older boyfriend the roommate mentioned. Maybe she was going to report the relationship and that’s why he killed her. And yes, maybe he was furious at me for obvious reasons and he figured, ‘Hey, since I’m out killing people this week anyway, I’ll just head over to TRU and whack Cyprus while I’m at it!’
No.
What was it he said when he was standing over me? Sorry, Cyprus. Can’t take the chance. What chance? If word had gotten around that h
e was gay, then that genie was already out of the bottle. Killing me accomplished nothing. In fact, he would have been the obvious suspect.
The chance that I had figured out that he and Lindsay had a thing? Perhaps. She had said she would talk to me later before bolting from my office. So he was willing to commit two murders to avoid getting . . . what? A letter of reprimand?
Technically, graduate assistants were de facto faculty members and weren’t supposed to have relationships with undergrads, but who were we kidding? It happened all the time, and nobody was going to try to enforce a rule that was put on the books simply so the university could be covered in a lawsuit. It was a joke and Steven had to have known that. In fact, he was arrogant enough to violate the policy and dare the administration to come after him!
Wrong. This was just wrong.
It was something else. Something else entirely. The police had their killer and I had tied things up neatly for them when I lowered his heart rate to zero. High profile case—closed. Backs patted, badges polished, a city saved from a killer. I knew how it worked. I had seen it before. Fade to black, roll the credits.
My scotch was empty and my multicolored shoulder felt better. I thought about what to do next and I knew what the right answer was. I knew what Kaitlyn would say. I would go back to work, be thankful that I’m not in a casket, and move on with my life. I would make amends with Randy, Aaron, and Jacob, and finish up the semester. Final exams and paper submissions were right around the corner. I had some good ideas for a research project that I could start over the summer and I would throw myself into my work. I really needed to get published more often. That’s what professors love, right? So many things to do. So many ways to occupy my mind. As for my spare time, weightlifting was on hold, but my legs still functioned, so I could still train for, and run in, the upcoming marathon. Everything would work itself out.
I finished off my scotch and went back to bed. The last thing I remember before I drifted off into a deep sleep was thinking how remarkable it was that extreme circumstances could turn anyone into a driven killer.
Mile 10
The eastbound turn onto East Carson Street represents the commencement of the closest thing to a straightaway on the course. The Monongahela River dictates the contours of the road we are on. Old industry sits on this shoreline, refusing to give ground without a fight. Point State Park juts out into the water, marking the division of the three rivers, while ducks and geese surround its prominent fountain. The crowd is reappearing. As we approach Station Square, the shouts of inspiration and paperboard signs rematerialize. One reads, GO DANA! you CAN DO IT! Another screams, GO DADDY WE LOVE YOU! I have to smile when I see one imprinted with dry wit. It simply states, GO . . . YOU. Every little bit of motivation helps, I guess.
I’m still running strong. Fatigue hasn’t set in yet and the legs aren’t wobbly. It’s this pace. It’s slower than my usual pace. I have to come at him from behind—not obvious, but not looking like I’m watching for him.
Hide in plain sight.
Seek him out.
Confirm the kill.
He’ll be somewhere between point A (the starting line) and point B (the finish).
He’ll never see it coming if all goes according to plan.
Having persuaded myself that this ugly chapter in my life was over and it was time to reinvest myself in my work, I woke up the next day feeling battered but more relaxed. I had slumbered until ten o’clock when Sigmund had finally had enough of my insolence and woke me up with a healthy dose of doggie breath in my face.
In the kitchen, I found a note from Kaitlyn informing me that she had gone into the office and would call me later to see how I was feeling. My stomach roared and reminded me that an assortment of protein bars had served as the previous evening’s meal. I made myself an omelet, held back on the hot sauce out of respect for the cuts in my mouth, and annihilated it along with a bowl of cereal. Grabbing a large cup of coffee, I headed to the computer to check my work email.
I had two new messages. One was from Brent, who was characteristically courteous but to the point. He would take care of notifying my students that class was canceled; he had heard about the incident and hoped that I was unharmed. No questions, no undue sentiment. I appreciated his succinctness.
The second message wasn’t as pleasing. Silo was informing me that, pending an internal investigation by the university, I was suspended. He cited the vaguest of reasons, inappropriate conduct, and explained that the department heads and the university’s president would review the facts of the case in full. They would construct an official report that would be forwarded to the Criminology department. I would be contacted if a statement from me was desired.
No, ‘Gee, I’m glad you’re still upright’ or ‘Get well soon, we miss you.’ The email also stated that the investigation should only take a few weeks and I would receive an official notice of the outcome. In the meantime, a substitute would be found to instruct my classes, and I would be provided with that individual’s contact information in a subsequent email so I could get the lucky winner up to speed. I would continue to receive my salary during the inquiry.
I stared at the email and picked it apart. After the third reading, I slumped back in my chair and played the whole thing out in my mind. I would be fine. The inappropriate conduct he was referring to was the coming out party I hosted for Steven. I didn’t know if he had officially filed a complaint, but I seriously doubted he would come back to life and press the issue. I would be cleared. This was just Silo playing petty games with me. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I had crushed a student’s skull in a campus parking lot. I wasn’t expecting to get an engraved invitation to speak at commencement.
So work was on hold for the time being.
For all intents and purposes, I was unemployed.
Not good. I get into trouble when I’m bored.
About an hour later, I received a call from the graduate assistant who was assigned to teach my classes while I was gone.
“Uh, Dr. Keller?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Brian An . . . An . . . Andrews. I’m s-supposed to be covering for you—I mean—not covering, but . . . your classes. I’m taking over . . . not taking over, but helping you with your classes. Not that you need help. It’s just . . .”
The poor kid was so nervous he could barely put a sentence together. It wasn’t an awkward nervousness, it was much worse than that. Apparently killing a graduate assistant with my bare hands was having an adverse effect on my ability to communicate with people.
I interrupted his stammering with, “I suppose you need to know where to pick up in my classes, right?”
“Uh, yeah. That would be great. Mr. Killer. I mean Dr. Killer. I mean . . . Keller.”
I’m pretty sure I heard him slap himself in the head, so I waited and gave the poor bastard a chance to catch his breath. I briefed him on where I was in my lectures, and told him he could find the materials I had graded in my office. He sounded unsure, but hung up quickly.
I busied myself for the next few days with every home improvement project imaginable. I fixed things. I broke things by trying to fix them. I decided the ceiling fans were a little too noisy. The toilets didn’t flush quite right. Had the icemaker always vibrated like that?
I made daily trips to the Home Depot and filled my cart with hex nuts, degreasers, electric screwdrivers, work lights, and wire cutters. It wasn’t until one morning when I found myself standing around the store with some severe-looking retirees at a birdhouse building class that I decided I had gone too far and hung up my tape measure.
Even Sigmund got sick of me. His naps were continuously interrupted by me doing him a favor by walking him a few times a day. Kaitlyn was now working mostly from her office and I suspected it was by choice. I went running every morning and tried to rehab my shoulder every evening.
Eventually, I ran out of things to do, and my legs could only handle so many miles. I tried readi
ng a book about the Unabomber, but never even made it to his days as a professor at Cal-Berkeley, which was before he cracked up. Lindsay and Steven intruded on my thoughts again. The case was closed. The news told me so. The DNA tests on the scratches were conclusive. They found her hair in his car. Over and done with.
Sorry, Cyprus. Can’t take the chance.
The emotional side of me struggled with the fact that Lindsay may have died because of her conversation with me. If true, not only did I serve as the audience to her demise, but I actually chastised her for coming to me. Could I live with not knowing for sure? That side of me said no. My logical side told me to build a birdhouse. I hate birdhouses.
From my computer, I accessed the school directory by entering my username and password. I looked up Lindsay’s address. It was still listed. I wrote it down and flashed back to writing Steven’s address on the old coupon. The morning after the attack, I had checked the pockets of the bloody coat and found the scrap of paper. I threw it away along with the tainted coat. I pulled up a mapping program on the computer and entered Lindsay’s old address. I printed out the route that would hopefully guide me to some answers.
Frightening Sigmund into thinking it was time for another walk, I grabbed my keys and headed for the driveway. The day after the attack, Kaitlyn had called a friend to drive her to campus so she could retrieve my vehicle. I had offered to go with her to spare her friend the trip, but she thought returning to the scene and seeing the pools of dried blood would have a negative effect on my mental health. Sometimes being married to a psychologist sucks.
As if on cue, Bob Seger sang for me to “Turn the Page” as soon as I powered up the Jeep. The engine protested and I felt a pang of anxiety at the idea of needing a new car. With rush hour over a couple of hours before, the trip to the Oakland neighborhood took me less than twenty-five minutes. The directions on the passenger seat told me the apartment was in a complex off Forbes Avenue. I found a parking spot a block away in front of an art supply store and squeezed into it on the first try.
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