In writing, you must kill all your darlings. — William Faulkner.
It appears that it was typed up on an old typewriter.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “How do you keep finding me?”
“I stopped by your parent’s store,” he says, “and your parents told me where you worked.”
“So I have two stalkers now,” I say. “That’s fantastic.”
What is it about me that attracts men? I try really hard to show that I don’t care about any of them, but they keep coming around.
“Look at the note,” he insists.
“I saw it. Are you sure you didn’t write this and forget about it?”
“I don’t own a typewriter,” he says. “And I’m not that forgetful. Why would I randomly type up this quote?”
“Maybe it wasn’t random. You could have had a purpose for writing it,” I say. “You think whoever killed Everett and Victoria left this for you? Does that mean you think you’re next?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You’ve investigated a bunch of murders. I thought you might know.”
“Why didn’t you take this to the two detectives in charge?”
“Because they either don’t think these are murders, or they suspect me of committing them,” he says. “You’re the one person who has believed me. Should I confront Dr. Pierce?”
“Excuse me?” I spit out. “You think he’s the killer and you want to confront him? Do you have a death wish?”
“I can’t just wait around and see who gets killed next,” he says. “Is that what you plan to do?”
I feel heat rush up to my cheeks. “Are you trying to imply that I don’t care about people’s lives?”
“Clearly, I’m more than just trying if you understand what I’m saying.” He shakes his head. “I don’t mean to be such a jerk, but two of my students are dead and it doesn’t look like the detectives are trying to find the killer. I can’t lose another student.”
“What makes you so certain that you’ll lose one of your students?” I ask. “It could be a student that you haven’t taught.”
“There’ve been two victims and they’re both in the English department,” he says. “They’re both prominent students in the English department. I’ve taught most of those students—there have only been a few that have concentrations in literature instead of writing that I haven’t taught. If there’s another victim, it will be an English student that I’ve taught…and even if it wasn’t, I still care about all of the students.”
Yes. Both victims were strongly connected to him. He could be the killer. But why would he keep trying to pull me into the investigation? It could be to distract me from the fact that he’s the killer, but if he hadn’t been asking about it, the investigation would have been closed quickly.
I’m still wearing rubber gloves, so I take the note from him.
“You’re the only one who has touched this, right?” I ask. “After the killer?”
“Yes,” he says, relief flooding his face. “Do you think there are fingerprints on it?”
“Possibly,” I say. “But I doubt it. You’ve had your hands all over it and, even if there were fingerprints, they’ll be useless if their prints aren’t in any of the databases.”
“What about Dr. Pierce?” he asks. “He’s the strongest suspect.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I say.
“You thought it was too dangerous for me to talk to him. You think it’ll be safer for you to talk to him?”
“I have someone who will help me,” I say.
“Who?” he asks.
“An asshole.”
Andre looks like he’s half-awake the second he opens his door, but as soon as he recognizes me, he stands up straighter, grabs my arm, and jerks me into his apartment.
“What are you doing here?” he hisses, running his hand through his dark hair three times. It's always been his nervous tic.
“Really?” I ask. “You’re going to get upset about me showing up at your home when you were stalking my parent’s store?”
“When I’m at your parent’s store and I see you, anyone who sees us together is just going to assume I’m hitting on a hot woman who happens to repeatedly reject me,” he says. “If you show up here and someone sees you, it becomes suspicious.”
“Then, you can tell them I’m your clingy ex-girlfriend who won’t stop stalking you,” I say.
“This isn’t something to joke about,” he says, leaning against his dining room table. It pisses me off that he has a bigger apartment than mine. It seems that being a criminal pays well. “But, now that you’re here, I’m assuming that you need something. If you had suddenly fallen in love with me again, you’d be a lot nicer.”
“I was never in love with you.”
“There you go being your kind, loving self,” he says. “I’m going to ask again anyway: what do you need?”
I cross my arms. “I just need you to act as a bodyguard. This doesn’t mean I want any relationship with you—I just need you to stand around and help me if…things get dangerous.”
“If things could get dangerous, you shouldn’t get involved.”
“Are you kidding me?” I demand. “You’re saying that to me? I shouldn’t even be here after what you did to me.”
“I didn’t do anything to you,” he says. “I mean, technically I did a lot of things to you, but if we’re talking about—”
“Shut up,” I interrupt. “Will you come with me to talk to a possible suspect?”
“You’re not a detective.”
“Clearly, neither are you,” I say. “I’m doing it because the detectives in charge have their hands full and I couldn’t find any DNA on the evidence I was given. Can you help?”
He smirks. “Of course.”
“Have you gone to the theater lately?” Andre asks as we stand outside the classroom Dr. Pierce is teaching in.
“No.”
“I went a little over a week ago,” he says. “I didn’t go with anybody…it was one of those spur of the moment things. Anyway, I chose this one movie just because of its minimalist poster. All it showed was a cracked ice cream cone with the scoop of ice cream that had fallen beside it. The movie ended up being about this woman who has depression and she’s feeling really depressed, but then she meets this guy. You expect this guy to make everything better, right? But he doesn’t. She’s still depressed. She’s depressed until she decides to change everything in her life and begin living her life with the choices she wants to make and not by some ritual or schedule.”
“What the hell does that have to do with ice cream?” I ask.
“The guy was an ice cream truck driver,” he says.
I shake my head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I think you really enjoyed being with me because it was something out of your normal schedule,” he says. “And now you’re back on a schedule—”
“I’m not depressed,” I say.
There’s the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and students begin to flow out of the room. When the last student has shuffled her way out, I lead Andre inside. Dr. Pierce is putting a stack of papers in his briefcase.
“Dr. Pierce?” I ask, stepping up to his desk.
He looks up at me. “The assignment is due on Thursday. There are no exceptions—”
“I’m not your student,” I cut him off. “I just wanted to ask you some questions about the recent deaths of two of your students.”
He blinks, the hint of a grimace on his face. I’ve seen a fair amount of suspects questioned and he seems rather good at hiding his emotions.
“Are you the police?” he asks. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“I just want to ask some questions,” I say.
He looks up past me and notices Andre. He shakes his head. “No. I have to get home. I’ve had a long day—”
“You should know it looks suspicious to not want to answer some simple questions,” I say.
He
sighs. “Fine. What do you want to know? I was not in a relationship with Victoria and I didn’t even know Everett that well.”
“You were part of the group that decided to give him an award for poetry,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “I did that with Dr. Zimmer, who was significantly closer to both students. You should question him.”
“I’m questioning you right now,” I say. “So you’re saying you weren’t close to either of your students? Weren’t both of them seniors? You would have had to have a couple of classes with them.”
“Uh, no,” he says. “I mean, yes, they were seniors…at least, I’m pretty sure they were. But I only had two classes with Victoria—the first one had nearly thirty students in it—and I never had a class with Everett.”
“How can you be a writing professor and you didn’t have either of them as students…except two classes with Victoria?” I ask.
He shrugs. “They preferred Zimmer. Most of the students do. They consider him to be fun and genuinely care about their lives.”
“You don’t care about their lives?”
“It’s more of a job to me,” he says.
“You seemed extremely prepared to say that Victoria wasn’t in a relationship with you.”
“Because Dr. Zimmer has already insinuated it,” he says. “Besides, it’s not a crazy assumption. Regardless, I was not sleeping with her and I didn’t hurt her.”
There’s something off about his behavior. Every time he talks about Victoria, he seems to be holding his breath until he’s done speaking. It makes his last few words about her sound like the words of a dying man.
“What classes did you have with Victoria and how long ago did you have these classes with her?”
“The classes weren’t just with her,” he says. “Like I said, one of them had nearly thirty students. That was last semester and it was Living Fiction Writers. There were about twenty other students in the class she had with me this semester—the class was Creative Nonfiction.”
Exhale.
I’m listening to some creative nonfiction right now.
“What aren’t you telling me, Dr. Pierce?”
“Nothing.”
Andre suddenly rushes in like a bull. He grabs Dr. Pierce by the collar of his shirt and rams him against the desk.
“Why don’t you tell the lady what she needs to know?” Andre spits out. “We don’t have all day to listen to you dance around the truth. Maybe if I cut your Achilles’ tendon—”
“No,” I snarl, pulling Andre away from Dr. Pierce.
He releases Dr. Pierce’s collar and takes a few steps back.
I turn and face Andre. “I told you you’re only here for protection. It was an easy job. How have you already messed it up?”
“You two are crazy,” Dr. Pierce mutters, rubbing his chest. “I should call the mayor and tell him the police are harassing me.”
“Dr. Pierce, I’m sorry,” I say. “He’s not with the police. We won’t bother you again. I promise.”
I grab Andre’s arm and pull him out of the room. I keep my grip on him until we’re both out of the building.
“I can’t believe you,” I hiss. “I could get fired over this. The two detectives in charge have already threatened to go to my bosses if I continue to investigate this. How could you grab him like that?”
“Easily,” he says. “He was pissing me off.”
“We’re done,” I snap. “I knew this was a mistake. He’ll never talk to me again now. I’ll never figure out if he’s the killer.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “Let’s go investigate that other professor he was talking about. Zimmer. He seems pretty suspicious. I’d never trust any professor that was beloved by all of his students.”
“Being nice isn’t a crime.”
He narrows his eyes. “Do you have a thing for this guy? You’re usually the first to criticize.”
“He’s the one who wanted my help to investigate.”
“Ah,” he says. “So, you do have a thing for him.”
“No.”
“Then, let’s question him. Tell him to meet us at my apartment. I prefer to be on my own turf. College campuses freak me out. I’ve seen ten people in pajamas, a guy on a unicycle, and a school mascot of a shark since we’ve been here. I’m pretty sure Tuskmirth’s mascot isn’t a shark. This whole place is fucked up.”
“Is it the truth and knowledge that freaks you out, Andre?” I ask. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not going to question him.”
“I thought you always wanted the truth.”
“When has that mattered to you?” I snap.
He smirks. “You know…there’s always a different way we can get information without confronting him,” he says. “I mean, if there was something weird going on between him and his students, there’s one obvious place for them to meet. How easy do you think it is to break into his office?”
“Apparently, very easy,” I say. “But we can’t just break in. I’m part of law enforcement.”
He grins. “I’m not.”
“I’m not doing this with you,” I say, standing right outside of John’s office as I hear Andre moving the rolling office chair. “If anybody comes around, I’m going to pretend I found you here and I’m going to arrest your ass for getting me in trouble again.”
“You just love talking about my ass, don’t you?” he teases. “Don’t lie, Mira. You know you wouldn’t turn me in. That would be a quick way to piss off your Captain and Lieutenant…and you know you’d never be able to handle the idea of me being locked up again.”
“You’re full of yourself.”
“I hope so. I’d hate to be full of anyone else,” he says. “Did you know this guy wrote a book? It’s called Insomniac Rites. That sounds like the book of a crazy person. It sounds interesting.”
“Is it about insomnia or religion?” I ask.
“Uh, from what I can tell…neither,” he says. “The back of the book says: Sarah Condran is a young student at a prestigious university, working day and night to become a dancer. She needs to remain one of the top dancers to keep a scholarship that pays for her tuition. Though she has a boyfriend—a fraternity brother with a love for the superficial things in life—who has proposed to her, Sarah finds herself drawn to one of her dance professors. As she’s on the edge of gaining everything she has ever dreamed and losing everything she needs, she finds that even when the body is pushed to exhaustion and the habits—oh, that’s what it has to do with insomnia. That makes more sense.”
“A college student having an affair with her professor?” I ask. “That seems a bit cliché for a college professor.”
“Oh, he wrote another book too,” he says. “It’s still in manuscript form. It’s called Little Trials. This one is also about a college student. I’ve heard that when you’re writing, you’re supposed to write about what you know…I guess this professor really does that.”
“Can you hurry up?” I ask. “He could come back to his office at any minute.”
“This one reminds me of that movie I told you about. It’s about this woodsman that’s miserable with his life until he decides to move into the city as a way to change his environment. He’s still unhappy until he meets a group of drug enthusiasts—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “A woodsman?”
I slip into John’s office. Andre is facing away from me, reading from a large stack of paper.
“Why is the woodsman part important?” Andre asks, still skimming the first page of the manuscript. I lean against him to look closer at the manuscript. With his body heat so close to me, it reminds me of the dozens of times his toned body lingered right above mine and his dark eyes seemed to look into me until I was nothing but a soul.
But that was in the past and it's time to move forward.
“The first victim was Victoria, who had a fraternity boyfriend and we suspect she was sleeping with Dr. Pierce. The second guy wore plaid all of the time and, honestly, looked like a woodsman. H
e’s stealing his student’s lives for his stories…or warping them. He’s doing something with them.”
“And they both happen to be dead now,” he says. “That’s quite the coincidence.”
I grab the manuscript from him. “Where’s the other book?”
He points to the bookshelf. I grab it.
“We’re going to read these and see how similar they actually are to the students,” I say.
He groans. “You know I am doing very important things outside of this.”
I turn to face him. “Are you saying that you don’t want to do this with me?”
He shrugs, but he follows me out, never letting more than a few inches come between us.
“Sarah’s hair made people do a double-take—even people who had known her for years. It was the shade of almonds, but as she walked, it moved like silk with the volume of a model in a shampoo commercial. She had the strong legs of a dancer—muscle etched in every inch—but most people never looked past her hair. Over time, she learned she could dissuade people’s obsession with her hair by tying it up in a bun, but it still drew people in and she didn’t appreciate people being in her private space,” I quote. I flip forward a few pages. “Later, it says that Sarah has a scar above the right side of her lips and acne bumps on her chin. This is…like an exact description of Victoria. Did you find a description about his other protagonist?”
“You mean Neil the woodsman, who enjoys plaid shirts and who is essentially described as a very tall, bald man?” Andre asks. “Yeah. I like this guy. He doesn’t give a shit about anything, but he’s still a decent guy. He reminds me of myself.”
“When have you been decent?”
“I still have all my clothes on while we’re alone in your apartment,” he mutters. “You should be impressed.”
I set John’s book down and rub my temple. “What does this mean? Did he use them to write his stories and then kill them when they figured it out? Victoria was killed in his office.”
“Seems like a pretty ridiculous reason to kill someone.”
“Most reasons people kill each other are ridiculous,” I say. “Money, angry outbursts, jealousy, religion, drugs, revenge for petty things…”
Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) Page 6