I really had no idea what I would say to Lindsay’s roommate. I wasn’t even sure if she would be home. If she was a student at one of the local universities, then there was a chance she would be in class. Even if she were home, if she knew that Lindsay died because she showed up at my office, she might slam the door in my face. Who could blame her?
The apartment building was the type where you need a code to get into the foyer or someone has to buzz you in. Wanting to avoid an awkward introduction over an intercom speaker, I waited for a resident to leave through the glass door. In my jeans and brown suede jacket, I looked more like a student than a professor. A tardy student carrying a computer programming text barely gave me a glance as he rushed out of the building. I slipped in through the closing door and found the nearest stairwell. Apartment 301 was at the end of a hallway that reeked of stale beer and staler pizza. A fluorescent bulb flickered over a doormat that framed an image of a marijuana leaf.
I knocked on the door and heard footsteps approaching.
A female voice asked, “Who is it?”
I started to speak and then realized that she couldn’t see me through the peephole. I was unconsciously standing to the side of the door.
Moving into her line of sight, I announced myself. “My name is Cyprus Keller. I’m a professor at . . .”
A deadbolt turned and the door opened. The girl was no more than five-feet-two and weighed as much as a helium feather. She had dark purple hair that was twisted into pigtails. One side of her nose was decorated with a gold stud and a small parrot tattoo protruded from under her shirt collar. She wasn’t the type that anyone would call pretty, but she probably had detonated on many occasions when unthinking young men called her cute.
“Why are you here?” Not hostile. Real curiosity.
I kept my tone soft and respectful as I said, “I was hoping to speak to you about Lindsay. Would you mind?”
She turned and walked to a small living room area where three mismatched sofas and a tan beanbag chair surrounded an old chest that doubled as a coffee table. Despite the lack of coordination in the furnishings, the apartment was immaculate. Magazines on current affairs were neatly stacked on the chest, books were alphabetized by author on a bookshelf in the corner, and old newspapers were neatly kept in a wicker basket beside a narrow stand displaying photos of the roommates in different settings. Even the half-used joint perched in the ashtray on the fireplace mantle was perfectly centered.
Not sure my introduction had been heard, I repeated, “Like I was saying, I’m Cyprus. I knew Lindsay from class.”
“I’m V.”
I looked at her, hoping for an explanation.
“It’s really Virginia, but I just go by V.”
“Virginia’s not so bad.”
“My last name is Richmond.”
Her voice didn’t match her appearance. This girl wasn’t tough. She was just trying to find an identity.
“Virginia Richmond?” I smiled. “Parents can try to be too clever sometimes.”
She smiled and between perfect white teeth, said, “I agree.”
“V it is, then. Are you a student?”
“Yeah. Poli Sci at Pitt.”
The interest in political science explained the magazines and newspapers. Young people usually go for more mindless periodicals.
“I’m very sorry about Lindsay,” I said. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about her?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to make sense of what happened to her.”
She shrugged her consent.
“Were the two of you close?”
“We lived together for the last two years. We were opposites, but we were the best of friends. People always thought she was kind of a ditz, but she was deeper than that.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “She was kind of a Barbie doll, but she knew it. She even made fun of herself for it. But she was smarter than people gave her credit for.”
She used her shirt collar to wipe her eyes.
“It’s unreal. I’m calling her the Barbie doll when I’m the one who was out shopping for clothes all evening while she’s getting killed.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed nice.” I didn’t mention the flirting and seductive behavior. “The man who killed her,” I saw tears starting to fall into her lap. “Steven Thacker. Do you know how long she was seeing him?”
Her pigtails swung back and forth, “I didn’t even know his name. Actually, I thought it was somebody else. I guess I still don’t completely believe it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had the impression that it was somebody much older who was taking advantage of her. I tried to tell her it was trouble. When I saw the picture of the man they say did it in the paper, I thought there was some mistake. That guy didn’t look old. And he was a grad student, right?”
“Why did you think it was somebody older?”
“Just the stuff she said. It sounded like he had a house and money. She said he talked about them traveling around Europe after she graduated.” She shook her head and got angry with herself. “I shouldn’t have assumed. He was probably lying to her. He didn’t have any money, he was just stringing her along.”
She looked at me sheepishly.
“The paper said that you killed him.”
“Yes.”
“So you think he did it then?”
“Yes.”
I tried to keep her relatively calm while not talking down to her. “I need you to think back for me, okay? Was there anything else that she said about the guy she was dating?”
“Like what?”
“Maybe about other people he was seeing? Or people he saw in the past?”
She was lost. I had to be careful with this.
I tried again. “Do you know if this type of relationship was new to him? Or—maybe if there was anything different about their relationship? Anything unusual? Something she was uncomfortable with.”
Still lost.
Last try. I made an effort with, “Did she ever mention if her boyfriend was into seeing other women? Or even men? Maybe experimenting a little?”
V fired back, “What are you talking about? Lindsay wasn’t into anything like that. Whenever she started dating a guy she demanded total monogamy. Total!” Her tears were still there, but they covered eyes that were becoming determined. “If she thought there was anything going on behind her back, she would have ended it right then and there.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to get a handle on this.”
She sighed and came back down. “It’s okay. I just got used to defending her. People thought she was shallow because she was so popular. They didn’t know her the way I did. Believe it or not, I used to tease her about being so old-fashioned.”
“Do you know how long she had been seeing this guy?” “This Steven guy?”
I didn’t answer.
She thought back and said, “Only for a few months, but she was crazy about him. I could see how excited she was when she would go off to see him.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t give me details after I started giving her a hard time about seeing him. I knew I shouldn’t have been so suspicious,” she looked down at the carpet as she added, “but I guess I was right to be.”
I leaned forward and made eye contact.
“I’ll leave you alone now, but I do need to know one more thing.”
“Okay.”
“What is it you aren’t telling me? What is it that you didn’t tell the cops?”
Eyes dart side to side, ever so slight. Arms contract and start to cross. Just three inches.
A tremor from her throat told me something when she said, “Nothing.”
Leaning forward a little closer, I asked, “That’s not exactly true, is it?”
Her right hand started pulling imaginary fuzz off the sleeve of her sweater. She didn’t even pretend t
o make eye contact anymore.
“That’s all I know.” She wiped her eyes and started to stand up.
I put a hand up and she stayed seated.
“You knew who he was. You knew who she was seeing, and I don’t think it was Steven Thacker.”
Silence. Two seconds. Three.
“I told you, I don’t . . .”
“You did know! You knew and you didn’t tell the cops. Why?”
“I didn’t know anything!”
“You did. And you do!”
“You should leave.”
“You were her best friend! She’s dead and you really don’t give a damn!”
“I do!”
“If you did, you wouldn’t be lying to me now!”
The eyes came back to me.
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you doing this? Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because you know I work at Three Rivers. Because you know she came to see me on the day she died. Because you just admitted that you thought the guy Lindsay was seeing was older than Steven. Because all of that should give you every reason to suspect that I might have been the boyfriend! Because you had every reason to tell the cops that I might be the guy and you didn’t. Because you let me in here even though you should think it’s possible that I’m the older man who was taking advantage of your best friend. Because you know it wasn’t me who was seeing her, because you know who it was!”
Her panicked response was, “No, I swear! I didn’t know. I never knew his name!”
“You had to, because you knew it wasn’t me! You know who it was. You didn’t tell the police and now you’re protecting someone. Why else would you let me in here?”
“Stop it!”
“Tell me.”
“People will think she deserved it.”
“How did you know it wasn’t me?”
She cried out, “Because she said you were one of the good ones!”
Mile 11
The half-marathoners split off near Station Square and the rest of us continue down East Carson Street. The road slowly pulls back from the water and enters the city’s South Side. Once again the streets that were lined with spectators are replaced by people coming into work and making deliveries. The neighborhood is lined with bars and tattoo parlors that were packed to their rooftops just a few hours before.
I check my pace and try to determine if I’m on target. The digital readout on my wrist tells me that I’m on pace. The running watch is the last important part of a runner’s equipment checklist. I wear one I got for free with a subscription to a running magazine. All it does is act as a stopwatch. I don’t even know how to set the time on it. It doesn’t have any fancy features, but its huge numbers are easy to read when buckets of sweat pour into my eyes. At one time or another, I was subjected to hearing about each of my running partners’ watches. Aaron and his black watch containing a heart rate monitor. Randy and some dark blue gizmo that records the times of your last 100 runs. And Jacob with some grotesque, lime green microcomputer that has GPS capability, measures changes in elevation, and can shoot laser beams. Well, maybe not laser beams.
According to my orange hunk of plastic, I can stand to drop back a little. I can afford to fall a little behind, but I can’t risk getting too close. Not if this is to go down the right way. I chew another piece of a decimated Pop-Tart and slow down through a water station. Lots of people slow down to drink their water. Nothing unusual here. After I’m sure a few seconds have piled onto my pace, I toss the cup aside and resume the pursuit. I’m not even nervous about this anymore. I’m excited. I’m excited, and that makes me nervous.
She regretted it as soon as she said it. The words hung out there and taunted her.
I waited a few ticks and returned to a normal tone, “What do you mean . . . one of the good ones?”
She asked me if she could get a glass of water. She actually asked me. I can sound pretty authoritarian when I want to.
When she returned to her sofa with a plastic Steelers cup (of course), she looked ready to come clean.
She sniffed, “I just didn’t tell you because that’s the way she would have wanted it.”
I waited.
Let her fill the void.
“I told her it was risky, but she felt it was going to do some good—both for her career, and in general.”
I didn’t move.
“I honestly don’t know who she was seeing. Maybe it was this Steven guy. But you’re right, I know it wasn’t you.”
I provided just a little push with, “Tell me about the whole thing. How was she working it?” I had no earthly idea what I was talking about, but that’s never stopped me before.
“She just made the approaches and recorded the information. If a professor bit, she documented it, but that was all. She never, ever followed through with it.”
Let her fill the void.
“After she came on to a professor, and he made it clear that he was willing to either go on a date with her or sleep with her, she would tell him she couldn’t go through with it and call it off.”
So Lindsay was baiting professors. Damn. I hated it when Kaitlyn was right.
“Why?” I asked as I leaned back again, giving her words some room. Another why.
“It’s a whole group of them. Four or five girls. Different schools. All over the country. She said it was going to be huge. They were going to create a website, put it all on there, get some attention and expose a bunch of college professors in the process. She called it her independent study course because she knew she couldn’t do it for real—I mean, actually use it for a class. She saw some journalism students get a bunch of attention for the RISE thing and she thought this would be even better. She wanted to be a reporter more than anything and saw this as a way to get her name out there.”
I remembered reading about the RISE controversy. A bunch of journalism students in Chicago had gone undercover and volunteered to work for the community organization and uncovered a system of bribery and tax evasion. For a few weeks after the story broke, the students were interviewed on all of the networks and made their rounds on the cable news shows. I also remember how the students recorded their investigation.
“Was Lindsay recording conversations with professors?”
V nodded and took a hard swallow of water.
“And you say that other girls were doing this?”
“Yeah. They met on some blog for journalism students. They were all at different universities, but basically doing the same thing.”
I thought about the seriousness of what I had just learned.
“You said that I was one of the good ones. Does that mean she found some bad ones?”
Again, a nod.
She followed with, “A bunch. She was trying to get professors from different departments. But she said that you wouldn’t budge. She told me that she was giving you the full-court press and all you did was get uncomfortable. I think she really respected you.”
“Did you know why she came to my office on the day she was killed?”
The tears were drying up now. Her breathing was less shallow.
“She said she was finishing up the story and wanted a recording of a professor actually stating what the student-faculty relationship policy was. She wanted you to say it, because you were one of the few who turned her away. It was her idea of being fair and demonstrating that not all professors were jerks. The whole thing was supposed to be about exposing hypocrisy in higher education, or some crap like that. She couldn’t ask any of the profs who actually took her up on her . . . her suggestions. They would have gotten suspicious and thought she was up to something. She just wanted some audio from you so she could show that faculty members did know that relationships with students were off-limits.”
She recorded the whole thing.
I asked, “Why didn’t you just tell the police all this? It could have been important.”
“You really didn’t know her well, did you?”
�
�No.”
“Well, her dad is a big time Methodist minister around her hometown. Her mom runs a school for kids with special needs. Do you think I want them to know that Lindsay was throwing herself at male professors at the school? If she broke her so-called story and made it big, then so be it. She could tell her parents that it was for the greater good and declare her moral superiority. At least when they found out what she had been doing, it would be on her own terms. But not like this. Not a headline in the Post-Gazette that paints her as some temptress who may have deserved what she got. No way.”
She was right. That’s exactly how the press would have portrayed it. The headline would be too juicy to pass up: SEDUCING STUDENT FALLS VICTIM TO OWN GAME.
“And the older boyfriend? Was that part of her plan?”
V stood up and walked over to the stand that held photos of the girls and their families.
She answered, “No. That was something different. She tried to work her magic on him, but somehow he read into it. Lindsay told me that he completely turned the tables on her and she felt guilty for trying to reel him in. She ended up telling him what she was doing and he actually supported her. He told her that the university system needed a good purging and that she was doing society a favor. It wasn’t long until they were involved. Can you believe that bullshit? I told her that she was being played, but she wouldn’t listen. And since I was so adamant about her breaking it off with him, she never did tell me who it was.”
She sat down on the beanbag chair and it molded itself around her tiny body. The tear factory started churning out products again.
“I should have tried harder. I told her that the project was going to get her in trouble. I told her that the guy was playing her. And then this psycho goes and kills her. He knew what she was up to, so why would he get mad at her? Why would this Steven guy promise to give her a future filled with romantic nights on the water and foreign vacations, and then kill her?”
I was standing by a window and looking out onto a quad filled with students.
“I don’t think he did.”
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