A male student in the second row answered first in a serious, yet questioning tone.
“The attackers were all crazy?”
A few snickers rose up throughout the auditorium.
Brent silenced the light laughs with a raised hand and a smile.
“No, no . . . don’t laugh. Many successful or would-be assassins have been mentally ill. It could certainly be argued that the attacks on Ford were perpetrated by insane individuals even though the courts disagreed. Any other guesses?”
A moment of stumped quietness passed before Brent relented.
“All these attacks took place when the target was stationary. What I mean is, the person attacked was either on foot at a particular site or seated at a designated location when the attacker or attackers struck. Most attempts occur at a point where the target is either coming from or going to, and not between those points.”
“What about JFK?” yelled a rumpled-looking young man near the back row. When he leaned up I could see a shirt with the logo of a mixed martial arts company that had become popular.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. There have been several attempts made on targets in moving vehicles, but they aren’t quite as common. There are a couple of reasons why. Would anybody like to venture a guess as to what those reasons are?”
“It’s harder to hit a moving target.” came one response from the middle of the sea.
“That’s one,” agreed the professor.
Thoughtful faces stared at the screens.
Brent paused for a few seconds and then said, “The second one is easy. Predictability. Most of the time an assassin knows where the target will be coming from or going to. Whether it’s Caesar sitting in the Senate or Reagan exiting the same Hilton hotel he had been to a hundred times, it is predictability that becomes our adversary.”
With a slight touch of a button the screens changed to a map of Washington, D.C. Two buildings were circled.
“So let’s say that the target lives here.” Brent used a laser pointer to identify a street in Washington’s Northwest quadrant. “And an assassin knows that the target is going to be here.” The green dot moved to a block in Southeast. “Do you think the attacker would rather try to anticipate which of these fifty different routes the target might take,” the dot bounced all over the nation’s capital. “Or, do you think he would prefer to set up at one of these fixed locations.”
Nobody answered. Nobody needed to.
“Predictability is what gets people killed. Now does that mean that threats should be ignored along the routes? Of course not. People in the security business have a tendency to drop their guard when they are in between the departure point and destination. That should never happen. Those of you who go on to work in law enforcement or security would be well served to remember that.”
Following a brief look at his watch, the speaker dismissed the class with a reminder about a reading assignment. As the students filtered out, he looked up at me and nodded hello.
On the stage, we shook hands.
“Hello, Brent. It’s good to see you.”
“Same here. Your face seems to have healed up nicely.”
When he said it, I saw his eyes move to the fresh bruise above my left ear which my short haircut did nothing to conceal. He seemed to be in a good mood, and there was no indication that word had gotten to him about Randy’s death. If I was right, I still had a few hours.
I liked Brent. There wasn’t anything phony about him and he didn’t put up with anybody who tried to snow him. Since I started at TRU we had gotten together on a few occasions when the weather kept me from running, and I let him mop up the racquetball court with me. We weren’t close friends, but we were certainly friendly. Last year, I had tried unsuccessfully to get him to join my running group. Boy, was I glad now that it didn’t work out.
He gestured to a desk at the corner of the stage and said, “Well, I brought the paperwork with me, and there isn’t another class in here for a couple of hours. Want to knock it out right here?”
I agreed, and let him have the “control side” of the desk. Nothing to fear. Just a formality.
Brent asked me to give a recounting of my initial comments to the police about Steven and his subsequent attack on me. Despite having gotten no sleep the previous night, I told the story perfectly, leaving out all the right details. I was afraid that Brent would slip back into law enforcement mode and start asking more pointed questions, but he didn’t. A half an hour passed before I’d finished the story and Brent had written out my statement. He asked me to read it, and if I agreed with the content, to sign the document at the bottom. I did, and I did. Packing up the papers, Brent stood and I mirrored him.
“I’ll type this up later and get you to sign the final version. Do you have a fax at home?”
I told him I did and gave him the number.
“It must suck being on that side of the table.”
“It does,” I said.
“Every time I had to take a polygraph or get re-interviewed for my security clearance, I walked out of there feeling guilty for breathing.”
“I just hold my breath.”
We shared a tension-breaking laugh.
Smiling and putting a hand on my back, he said, “Come on. You look tired. Let’s go grab a cup of coffee. If you promise not to whack any grad students on the way, I’ll even pay.”
“I can’t make any promises. I’m a little irritable until I have two cups.”
We walked out of the building into sunlight that was drying out the night’s rain. We were surrounded by a return to normalcy that I knew was about to be disrupted by more news of death. When the news about Randy made its rounds, the school would be in a frenzy. Three TRU people—dead in a matter of weeks. Another girl at a nearby university—found bludgeoned. Parents would flood the university switchboards demanding action. Police patrols would double if not triple. Reporters would write heartless headlines and teleprompter jockeys would paint themselves with sorrowful looks as they spoke through a camera to a rattled populace.
Brent looked up at the struggling sun as we stood on concrete steps that unfolded down to an active pedestrian-filled street.
After a long inhalation, Brent spoke. “I think spring is almost upon us. It’s about time. Winters in Atlanta were sure a lot easier. Hell, even D.C. was a little better.”
He looked down the street at some approaching runners.
“Isn’t that your running group?”
I tried to focus my eyes on the passing runners. They were making a turn around the corner.
Three of them.
Three.
I could see Jacob and Aaron paired together, talking and smiling. It looked like Jacob turned his head just enough to address the runner trailing them.
Speechless, I stood and stared as the new addition appeared behind Jacob and Aaron, and then vanished around a brick building.
“Well, what do you know?” asked Brent. “You never told me that ol’ Silo was a runner.”
Still looking at the corner as if it was going to reveal something new, I could only answer, “I didn’t know he was.”
Mile 20
This is the wall. When you enter the community of runners, you always hear them talk about hitting the wall. The twentieth mile is that wall. Even for the most experienced runners, something happens at this point where the tank runs empty and the sleek sports car you were cruising along in becomes an antiquated contraption. Some people are limping; others are flat on the side of the road. The medical crews were wisely placed in the middle of this mile so they could attend to the delirious and unconscious. A lady in a pink tank top is bent over crying. Her hands are on her knees and tears are splashing between her laces. Tomorrow, she’ll be embarrassed for crying and she will wonder what caused her to react that way. She’ll eventually realize that it wasn’t from pain or frustration, it was her mind and physical being saying—enough.
The refuse of misfortune is scattered throughout the r
est of the East Liberty and Highland Park neighborhoods. The pleasant two-story houses, behind fifty-year-old trees, look on sympathetically. Wrought-iron fences that have no gates are for aesthetic purposes only. These streets have seen the bad times and bounced back to solemn respectability. No need for gates. The battle-tested faces of those who sit on their porches and watch us pass by are protection enough.
Medics are working on a torn man splayed out by the seminary. His head is turned toward the contemplative brick structures and he mouths something. He gets no response. On the opposite side of the street sits a football field surrounded by empty bleachers. God on one side of the street, gridiron on the other. I wonder which side hears more prayers.
Some more race photographers are on a scaffold up ahead. I prop my sunglasses up on my head and let the breeze evaporate some sweat on my face as I pass by. That’s another eighty-dollar picture I won’t purchase, but it will be invaluable to me.
I’m not going to hit the wall. This is too close to the end for me to stop. Again, I try to distract myself with scattered thoughts of measurements.
Only about 6 miles to go. And don’t forget the .2. A 5K is 3.1 miles. I’ve run dozens of those with no problem. This is two 5Ks. I can run two 5Ks. At this pace I can be finished with this in less than an hour. I can do anything for an hour, right?
Just 6.2 miles to go.
Only 7 more turns.
5 more water stations.
And 1 murder to commit.
It’s almost time.
The ground behind my home was still moist enough for me to easily retrieve the gun from the accomplice soil, and take it out of the waterproof bag. Having previously discarded the holster with all the other potential evidence, I had to tuck the firearm into the back of my waistband and cover it with my shirt. I drove to the local library and used one of their computers to do some quick research. It took me the better part of an hour, but I found what I was looking for. I filled the Wrangler’s tank with gas and took off for a small town in Ohio. The round trip took me only four hours. The Jeep smelled clean from the thorough shampoo treatment it had received on the way back.
Back at home, I once again took a walk into the trees. This time I walked nearly a mile into a deserted area. One of the benefits of living in hunter-filled western Pennsylvania was nobody thinks twice about two quick gunshots in the woods.
I walked back into the house, pressed a button on the remote control, and the television blurted out the story I didn’t really want to hear. I reloaded two rounds into the gun’s magazine as I watched. The names were released, an academy photo of Officer Nokes was plastered on the screen, and then the mention of the TRU professor found dead in the same room. The reporters recapped the entire history of Lindsay’s death, the murder of her roommate, and now this. This time the newscast didn’t break away to cover anything else. This was big time.
I checked a national news site on the computer and sure enough, there it was. A photo of the apartment building was front and center with a beckoning link sitting below. It took them no time at all to put a name on it: The Bloody ’Burgh.
The story detailed everything up to the most recent deaths. My stomach contracted when I saw my name mentioned as the professor who killed Steven Thacker in self-defense. The police were still investigating the deaths of Virginia Richmond, Randy Walker, and Officer Monica Nokes. They had no information to release as of yet. The police refused to comment on whether Dr. Walker was a victim or a suspect. They refused to speculate as to why he would have been at the apartment. They said it would have been irresponsible for them to speculate about who shot who. One thing they did confirm was that Officer Nokes’ weapon was still in her holster. They were looking for a third party.
I needed to call Kaitlyn. She was certainly going to hear about this, and I needed to give her a heads-up. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen my cell phone in a couple of days, and it took me several minutes until I found it on the dining room table. When I opened it up, blackness stared back at me. Dead. I wondered how long it had been out of commission. I found the charger and plugged it in. Picking up the landline in the kitchen, I dialed Kaitlyn’s cell phone. It went straight to voice mail and I left an overly calm message asking her to call me when she got a chance.
The couch swallowed me up, and I pressed a button on the remote control sending the reporters into the media abyss. Within seconds, my eyes were closed and I left the world I knew for one where my hands were clean of blood, and ghosts of dead students and colleagues fell into submissiveness and rattled their chains no more.
I jumped up in the room that had become dark. Instinctively, I grabbed the gun that was still tucked in the back of my waistband and tried to scan the room for the threat. I saw nothing but heard everything. If an air horn could catch a cold, that’s what a beagle’s bark sounds like when it wakes you up. Sigmund was up near the front window and his bellowing was sincere and alert. Walking down the hallway toward the front door, I found my canine alarm clock with his front paws on the windowsill, and his attention fixed in the direction of the street.
At the door, I peered out of a small pane of glass and caught sight of the cars blocking my driveway. Three men were approaching, and the light from a post in my yard showed me their faces. Detectives Shand and Hartz were scanning the windows as they headed toward the front door and they didn’t look happy. In tow was a local uniformed officer, there as a courtesy to two detectives who were a few miles out of their jurisdiction.
I knew that whatever they wanted to talk about, they would want to discuss it inside the house. I didn’t have time for this, and I needed to get rid of them. Once I let them in, they would be hard to get rid of. Playing the part of the unfairly persecuted was probably the quickest way to send them on their way and leave them guessing.
Quickly, I retreated back to the living room and put the gun behind a pillow on the couch. I only had to wait a few seconds before the doorbell rang. Waiting for a second ring, I opened the door and said hello to my guests.
“Dr. Keller, we were hoping to talk to you,” announced Shand, wearing a brown leather coat that partially covered a blue polo shirt.
Shaking my head and allowing myself a slight sigh, I said, “I heard about Randy. I can’t believe it.”
Detective Hartz asked, “Would you mind if we came in?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way guys, but actually, I would. It’s been a rough couple of weeks and now this news about Randy. I really don’t know how I can help you. Do you have any leads on who killed him?”
Shand ignored my question and countered, “Well, we were thinking you might be more help to us than you may realize. Maybe we can just come inside and talk for a while.”
“Sorry, guys, it’s really not a good idea. The place is a mess and my dog can be pretty tough around strangers.”
Detective Hartz leaned slowly to his right and looked at the front window.
With one eyebrow raised, he asked, “Would that be the little pooch there in the window with the tongue hanging out, tail wagging?”
“He’s different once you’re inside. Quite vicious. Trust me.”
“Dr. Keller, you know how these investigations work, right? Different detectives work the investigations in whatever areas they are assigned. If cases seem to have similarities in them, no matter how small, the detectives get to talking. They start comparing notes and throwing theories around.”
I waited.
“And here’s the thing. We’ve got Lindsay Behram, Steven Thacker, and now this Walker guy all dead. And we sit down and comb through these cases and, sure enough, guess what three of them have in common?”
“Three Rivers University.”
“That’s right. And the Richmond girl, she was roommates with Lindsay, so I think we can safely say there’s another connection as well.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“But the thing is . . . they don’t all just have Three Rivers in common. They have you in common
too, don’t they?” Shand accused.
“Was the Richmond girl a TRU student? I thought the newspaper said she went to Pitt.”
“She went to Pitt, but did you know her?”
“Why would I know her?”
“Maybe you would like to come with us down to—”
On the off chance that they would find one of my fingerprints in V’s apartment from my first visit, I decided it was best not to answer the question about knowing V; and I certainly wasn’t going to let myself be put in an interrogation—an interviewing room. Time to be indignant.
“Are you kidding me? Because of you guys, my school thinks I’m a homophobe. Aside from that, I can’t take two steps on campus without people whispering, Hey, that’s the professor who killed his grad assistant! Now one of my coworkers is dead! And let’s not forget the fact that a student in one of my classes got herself killed—and that’s what set this whole thing in motion! Now you think I might know something about Randy and that officer getting killed? This is like a sick joke! What more do you want from me?”
The uniformed officer was standing in my yard, just off the porch. When I started yelling, I saw his hand move closer to an expandable baton on his belt.
Hartz and Shand were in no mood for this. They probably hadn’t had much more sleep than me. Hartz seemed to take particular exception to my attitude.
The giant detective leaned down six inches to look me in the eye.
In a deep, deliberate tone, he said, “You didn’t let us finish.”
He straightened up and left his pupils indented on my forehead.
“Maybe if you would come down to our place, you could help us exclude you as a suspect. You can tell us where you were last night. Maybe . . . maybe you could even let us take a look at the Sig Sauer P229 that is registered to you.”
“My gun! Now you want to see my gun!” I incredulously threw my hands to the sky. The uniform took a step closer. “Oh, you two are really something. Do you have a warrant?”
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