Resolve

by Hensley, J. J.

  The speck in the middle of the bag stared at me in wonder. I realized I better quickly clarify what I said.

  “He killed her. I don’t doubt that. But he wasn’t dating her.”

  “He wasn’t?” was all she managed to squeak out.

  “No. She must have been seeing another man. Like you said, an older man. Steven was a lot of things, but he was certainly not a charmer. I don’t see how he could have turned her around like that and ended up in a relationship with her. He didn’t have the charisma. And besides,” I sorted through some appropriate words and chose some, “I don’t think she was his . . . type.”

  The beanbag rustled. V asked, “Then why did he kill her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I lost several seconds as I watched a young man set up an easel on the grass outside and begin painting something. He had probably just come from the art supply store where I parked my car earlier.

  “Where are her notes and recordings, V?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I need to know. There might be something there that explains why she died.”

  The only sound was the fading chatter of students exiting another apartment. She wasn’t denying that she knew where they were. There would have been an instantaneous denial if that were the case.

  “Are you going to trash them?”

  “I need to review her notes and listen to the recordings. I just want to know why this happened. Two people are dead and I’m not real comfortable with that. Are you?”

  “After you see the stuff, then are you going to trash it?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  She looked over at the photos again. Then back to me.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t agree with what she was doing, but it was important to her. I just don’t know.”

  I thought about how damaging the information could be. Lives could be ruined. Marriages torn apart. If Lindsay was targeting full-time professors, not grad students, then careers could be ended. The scandal could destroy reputations regardless of whether sex was involved. Part of me felt sorry for the men who fell into her trap. On the other hand, those guys made their own beds and they wanted to hop into those beds with a girl who was probably young enough to be their daughter. I made a decision.

  “How about this? I’ll go over the information and then give it back to you in a few days. Then you can decide what to do with it. If you want, you can explain things to Lindsay’s parents, and then send the info to the other girls working on the project. Or, if you prefer, you can burn everything. Your call.”

  She immediately liked this idea. The beanbag spit her out and she walked over to the mantle where the ashtray was. There were candles on either end of the mantle and next to the candle on the left was a small figure, standing in a pose. V pulled it down and tossed it to me. I examined the tiny replica of a recent U.S. President. V noticed my confusion and rolled her eyes at me. Walking over to me and taking it from my palm, she pulled the figure apart. It was a USB flash drive. Lindsay had saved all of the information in the storage device and all that was needed to access it was a computer. V handed it back to me.

  She told me, “The police came here and searched the place after they found Lindsay’s body. I guess they thought this was just a decoration.”

  “It’s easy to miss,” I remarked. Then, rejoining the halves of the politician back together, I faced the implement in V’s direction and looked at her questioningly.

  Explaining the odd coupling of the device with the likeness, V said, “Lindsay said it was appropriate. Both were divisive and full of all kinds of crap.”

  We both smiled and I put Mr. President into my coat pocket.

  “You said the guy she was seeing knew about the project, even encouraged it. Did he know about the recordings?”

  “No. She told me that I was the only one who knew. She said if word got out that she was wired, her work would never get out there.” She gestured toward a wall that represented out there. We must have read the same geography textbook.

  “In this state, you can’t record people without their consent,” V continued. “She was afraid she would get charged and everything on the flash drive would be taken as evidence.”

  Another question crept into my mind.

  I asked her if she had looked at the information on the flash drive. She told me she hadn’t. She had never wanted anything to do with Lindsay’s plan.

  Returning to what V had said earlier, I asked, “What did you mean earlier when you said that Steven, or whoever the boyfriend was, promised her romantic nights on the water?”

  She rewound the conversation in her mind and remembered. “Lindsay said that when it got warmer out, they were going to go out on his boat. She said he had just bought a new one.”

  How nice.

  I knew a business professor who had done the same exact thing.

  Mile 12

  The nightclubs become intermingled with more upscale retail stores further down East Carson Street. The runners are completely spread out now. No more accidental bumping of elbows followed by breathless apologies. This makes it easier to navigate the streets, but harder to blend in. If I get too close, he’ll see me coming. He may not have any suspicions as to my intent, but I can’t take that chance. I need to stay out of sight, tucked away behind him, until the very moment of his death. I knew my vision would be limited here by the morning sun, so I pull down the sunglasses I’ve had propped up on the top of my head. They have small vents at the tops of the lenses to prevent them from fogging up. I have to see clearly.

  A man in an old white T-shirt and black pants hoses down a sidewalk in front of a jazz club. He waves at a pair of runners in front of me, a couple wearing shirts that read, FOR LINDA on the back. A tribute to a lost friend or family member. They don’t look like brother and sister. More likely a married couple who are running in remembrance of a mother, or sister. We do things that remind us of our own mortality in order to remember the dead.

  The hard left onto the Birmingham Bridge is when I feel the first signs of fatigue. Even at this slower pace, eleven miles is more than just a leisurely stroll. My legs feel solid, but of all things, my shoulder is starting to hurt. Despite it being a long way from my feet, the repeated pounding on the pavement still vibrates through my bruised bones. It’s like Chinese water torture. Each step is a drip on my shoulder. After 20,000 steps or so, the drips become hard jabs. By the end of the race it will feel like Steven is still behind me, whaling away with that tire iron.

  Kaitlyn returned from a morning meeting with a patient and was working in her den. She and Sigmund heard me come in and they both came out of her hideaway. She was still in business attire and cradling a half-filled mug of tea with both hands. Noticing that my hands weren’t holding any bags filled with carpet tape and drill bits, she asked me where I had been. I weighed the value of telling her about what I’d been doing and what I had learned against keeping her in the dark. Usually, I shared everything with her, but I really wasn’t sure what I had yet. She was still shaken up about the attack; and while the cuts and bruises on my face were healing, they were still visible reminders of how close I had come to buying the farm. If I told her I was out there interviewing Lindsay’s roommate and uncovering information that might be related to the murder, her fury would be something to behold. Our full disclosure rule would be put on hold. Later on she would surely understand that my secrecy was for her benefit. Right?

  Not that I’m scared of her. I’m the man of the house. I just didn’t see any need to concern her. I can do whatever I want. Really. I can get her permission anytime I want.

  “I needed to go for a drive. Cabin fever,” I lied.

  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you noticed any problems with the Wrangler?” she asked.

  “Other than the engine convulsing, the bad windshield wiper, the rusted bumper, the possible oil leak, and the ripped seat cushion in the back? Nope, not a thing.”

  She ig
nored my sarcasm.

  “When I drove it back from the university, it felt like it was shaking when it got over eighty. You never noticed that?”

  She was completely serious. I had pleaded with her for years about her lead foot.

  “I hadn’t noticed. Of course, I don’t try to drive it fast enough to go back in time.”

  She grinned, rolled her eyes, and headed toward the kitchen to warm up her tea.

  Turning her head back over her shoulder, she suggested, “Well, you should get it checked out. The alignment may be off.”

  I didn’t respond. I knew the car was on its last legs. I was just hoping it would make it through the summer, but that was looking less and less likely.

  I raised my voice so she could hear me in the kitchen and said, “I’m going to be working at my computer for a while. I’ve got some ideas for research studies I need to sort through.”

  “Alright. Have fun.”

  My home office was really nothing more than a desk, a computer, and a couple of crammed bookshelves. Sigmund decided that the sunbeam coming through my window was more inviting than Kaitlyn’s windowless lair, so he curled up in it and started snoring immediately. I closed the door and pulled the flash drive from my pocket. Pushing the mouse on my desk, I woke the computer up and pulled Mr. President apart. Plugging his feet into a USB port, I clicked on a couple of icons to see what I had.

  The files were separated into two main folders—audio files and text files. I clicked on the folder with the audio files. Subfolders appeared on the monitor, each of them labeled with different names. Rippoli, Parisi, Pasquinelli, Bandi, Wolfe, Jaworski, Caferty, Kelly, Kasko, Wainwright, Norris, Walker, Robbins, Baird, Harper, Smith, Maynard, Chrusciel, Hamluck, Cassidy, DeJohn, Esposito . . . Keller. I knew all the names. All were my colleagues, and most had families. Individual conversations were organized by dates. How many had she been successful with?

  I began opening the audio files, one by one. I started with mine. Four short conversations filled with increasing amounts of amorous advances and awkward deflections. The audio recordings didn’t do justice to her attempts. The gentle touching on the arm and revealing displays of her upper body couldn’t be captured this way. The final recording of me was her visit to my office. My statement abhorring such conduct sounded strong and convincing. Again, I shriveled up inside when I thought about the chain of events set into motion because of that visit.

  The quality of the recordings was good. She must have worn a digital recorder with a microphone tucked under her shirt. Obviously, not the top portion of her shirt. These days, recorders were so small they could be nearly invisible. I sifted through the conversations. Some were short—offended educators who wanted nothing to do with her.

  Most were longer—interested men, feeling out the situation. Prodding. Testing the waters. Those men were recorded on several occasions, each one becoming more daring. Eventually, most caved in and were willing to meet for private study sessions at their homes, or some motel. A couple of them were more blatant and described in fantastic detail what they wanted to do to her. It was disturbing. Discouraging.

  I saved the files of the people I knew best for last. Only a couple of weeks had passed since I had looked on as Aaron Caferty was teased about how he would incur his wife’s wrath for buying a bigger bass boat. As I waited for the audio to start playing, I thought about what V had said. Romantic nights on the water. A bass boat wasn’t exactly a luxury yacht, but I could see Aaron trying to depict it as such. I tensed up as the audio started to play.

  The first two conversations sounded as if Lindsay had approached Aaron after class. It was almost identical to the way she approached me. Small flirtations. Subtle innuendos. Nothing tangible. When Lindsay became more direct, Aaron didn’t shy away. When she complimented him, he flattered her. He was loving it. Back in the locker room, when I told Aaron, Jacob, and Randy about Lindsay’s murder, Aaron had said that he thought she was in one of his classes last semester. I checked the date of the recording. It was this semester. He knew exactly who she was and he hadn’t even batted an eyelid when I mentioned her name.

  The rest of the recordings with Aaron’s voice made me sick. These conversations also sounded like they took place after class. He was doing his best Donald Trump imitation, talking big, referring to his waterfront property on Lake Erie and his extensive travels. Yes, he was married, he told her, but they had an open relationship.

  I happened to know that Aaron owned a cheap condo in Erie, his extensive travels consisted of one weekend in Bermuda, and I had met Debbie—who I was quite certain hadn’t been fully briefed on their open-marriage arrangement. Lindsay sounded as if she was dazzled by the business guru. She began to suggest that they meet off campus somewhere, when another voice became audible. Then more voices. I was able to guess that students were filing in for the next class that was to be held in that room. There was an awkward goodbye between the two main speakers on the recording and then nothing.

  I clicked on a date that was about a week after the last as my mind was cycling through this new information. Was there really any connection between this and Lindsay’s death? How did Steven fit in? How hard should I punch Aaron when I saw him?

  My daydream of pounding Aaron into the ground was interrupted by the start of the next recording. It was Aaron speaking. He was proposing that he and Lindsay go away for the weekend. His house in Erie was being renovated, so they could just slip off to a hotel in Harrisburg. What a class act. The next part made my head ache with frustration. Lindsay turned him down. She told him she had thought about the two of them together, but she just couldn’t go through with it. He was a married professor and had too much to lose. She thought it was best if they kept things platonic and went their separate ways at the end of the semester.

  Aaron pleaded at first. He sounded so pathetic that I momentarily forgot that I wanted to pulverize him for being such a scumbag. When Lindsay refused to change her mind, his change in demeanor bled through the computer’s speakers.

  His voice boomed when he asked, “What is this, some kind of game to you? Do you like playing with my head?”

  Lindsay started to speak but was cut off.

  “You’re trying to make a fool out of me!”

  I heard a thumping noise that I assumed was Aaron pounding a desk or podium as he spoke.

  “I’m not some college boy who will be made a fool of! What am I, some sort of bet with your slut friends? Some sort of running joke? Is that what’s going on here?”

  He sounded extremely—troubled.

  “Are you laughing at me? Are all of your friends laughing at me? You and the rest of your slut friends can go straight to hell!”

  The next set of sounds was a girl who realized that she had taken things too far. Some wires had accidentally gotten crossed and a devastating malfunction had occurred. She sounded scared. Like a child who wanted nothing more than to get away from the source of ugliness that stood before her.

  Her words were unsure and rapid. She tried apologizing. She tried telling him she really did like him, but their being together just wasn’t right. She wasn’t laughing at him. Nobody was laughing at him. This was all a mistake and she never meant to cause trouble. She had to go now. Another class. Friends were waiting. Things to do. Someplace she needed to be. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  The fast-paced clicking of heels remained at a constant volume, as a voice in the background faded away. The last words that could be deciphered from the distant voice were, “You bitch! You’re all bitches!”

  The recording stopped and I double-checked to make sure that it was the last one in that folder. No other dates. I didn’t know if that was the last conversation Aaron and Lindsay had, but it was the last I had access to.

  Aaron wasn’t the boyfriend. That wasn’t charisma. That was volcanic rage that had been pent up for a long, long while. Lindsay had triggered something in Aaron and she never saw what was coming. He had a boat—but she would ne
ver have set foot on it with him after this episode.

  I stood up, and paced back and forth across the small room. Sigmund woke up, noticed the sunbeam had relocated without his permission, and readjusted his sleeping position accordingly. Steven killed Lindsay. I knew it. Without a doubt.

  Maybe Aaron’s tantrum was unrelated to Lindsay’s murder. As far as I knew, Aaron didn’t even know Steven. I didn’t know why Steven had strangled Lindsay, but I knew why he didn’t do it. I felt that the reason had to be here in these files.

  Yes, some murders happen for no reason. A stray bullet enters a bedroom window and a wife becomes a widow. A nutcase enters an elementary school and starts shooting. It happens. Sad, but true. But this was no stray bullet. This was a man putting his hands around a woman’s windpipe and squeezing until the life disappeared from her eyes. She had fought back. She tried to hang on to her life with her fingernails, but it slipped away. Steven must have looked into her eyes and watched the light go out. That takes a certain level of conviction. Not random. Not pointless.

  Having re-convinced myself that I was headed in the right direction, I found the next name that was most familiar to me. I opened the folder for Randy Walker expecting to find incriminating recordings. Randy was a three-time divorcee who didn’t have much respect for men, much less women. I once heard him refer to female police officers as glorified meter maids. Hearing his voice suggest a rendezvous with Lindsay would come as no surprise.

  Boy, was I disappointed. There was one recorded conversation in the file. It was from the previous semester and it lasted less than two minutes. It was Lindsay making her initial approach, full of flirtatious energy and false adulation being directed at Randy. The stone wall she hit was immense. He would have none of it. He was arrogant, condescending, and sexist. He was as repulsive to her as he was to anybody else.

  “What the hell are you doing? You’re a child. Go find yourself a boy your own age and focus on making him happy and raising some kids!”

  I had to give the guy credit—at least he was a consistent jerk. I could hear Lindsay go in full retreat.