The classroom door was wide open, and Bernadette saw a few empty desks in the last row. The professor’s back was turned, and she sat down without drawing his attention. Students around her gave her a quick look and then went back to their papers. They were taking a test.
While Wakefielder wrote on the board—he was assigning reading—Bernadette studied his hands. No scratches or bruises. That didn’t mean anything; no skin had been recovered from Klein’s nails. Under his blazer, he seemed to be of average build. Stood six feet or better. Blond hair like the guy Klein’s neighbor had seen. Yes, this man was a solid candidate.
A female student got up, went over to the prof, and handed him her paper. She whispered something. To hear her, he bent to one side. Ever so lightly, he placed a hand in the middle of her back.
Definitely in the running, this Wakefielder.
Bernadette unbuttoned her trench coat and the blazer underneath. Holstered under the waist of her slacks was her Glock.
ONE BY ONE, the students quietly put their tests on Wakefielder’s desk and filed out the door with their books and bags. The professor was so immersed in his writing on the board, he didn’t see a stranger in the room. When a girl to Bernadette’s right turned in her paper and exited the room, Bernadette went after her. She waited until the girl was at the other end of the hall. She didn’t want Wakefielder to overhear.
“Miss,” Bernadette said.
The girl was hunched over a drinking fountain. She stood straight and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was a tall, slender African American girl with almond-shaped eyes and a head of braids tied back from her face. “Yes?”
Bernadette hesitated. College students tended to distrust anything federal, but she went for her ID wallet anyway. Held it up. “I’m with the FBI.”
The girl blinked. “Yes?”
“We’re investigating the deaths of some female students.”
She took a step back from Bernadette. “The bridge murders?”
“There’s a student from your class. She may have been another victim.”
Her eyes got big. “Jeez. Really? Who?”
“Kyra Klein.”
The girl tightened her hold on her books, clutching them to her chest like a shield. “She’s dead? Someone from my class is dead? When did she die? She went off the bridge?”
“You knew her?”
Chewing her bottom lip, the girl hedged. “Not really. I mean…I’ve heard Professor Wakefielder call on her. I think I know who she is. Sits behind me. Blond.”
“Short black hair.”
“Oh, her. Real skinny, right?”
“It’s a small class,” said Bernadette. “Don’t you all know each other?”
“Not really. We’ve only been in session about a month. We meet three times a week for like fifty minutes, if that. It’s not like we hang out together.”
“What if somebody is absent? Does anyone notice?”
“People skip out. It’s not like the teacher takes roll. Bunch were gone today, even though we had a quiz. Fridays are good for that. People turn it into a three-day weekend by cutting class.”
So that the girl wouldn’t think every male in the class was a sociopath, Bernadette worded her next question carefully. “Did Kyra mention to you that she was having problems with anyone inside or outside of school?”
The girl shook her head. “Never really talked to her. No one in our group talks to each other. After class lets out, everybody takes off.”
Bernadette dug into her coat and pulled out a card. “If you think of something—what’s your name?”
The girl took the card and examined it. “Alisha.”
“Look, Alisha, if you think of something, call me.”
“Now I feel bad that I didn’t talk to her.” She looked toward the open classroom. “Do you think whoever did it might come after the rest of us?”
“No, I don’t think that’s what—”
“Has it been in the papers yet? Wait until I tell my boyfriend at the Daily.”
“Do not tell anyone we had this conversation,” Bernadette said firmly. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation. A federal matter. You could get in big trouble.”
Alisha said, “But—”
“I mean it, young lady.” Bernadette couldn’t believe she had just called someone young lady. She was getting old.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alisha said.
Bernadette tried to lighten her voice. “So…that’s an interesting course you’re taking, The Poetry of Suicide. What’s the big attraction? The subject matter or the professor?”
“Both, I guess. At least it isn’t the same old, same old. Who wants to suffer through more Shakespeare, right?”
“Right.”
“Professor Wakefielder, well…I like him. He’s different.”
Still keeping her voice light, Bernadette asked, “Why is he different?”
“He gets it. He’s a guy, but he gets it. It’s like—I don’t know—he knows what it’s like to be…” Her voice trailed off.
“Female?”
“Yeah. That sounds sick, doesn’t it?”
“He’s a caring, sensitive male,” Bernadette said pleasantly. She made the zipper sign across her mouth. “Remember, Alisha.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bernadette turned and went back to the classroom. She didn’t want the professor to get away from her. While she walked, she looked around. The hallway was empty. She quickly transferred her gun to the pocket of her trench coat. Those caring, sensitive males could be dangerous when cornered.
THE STUDENTS had all disappeared from the classroom. Alisha was right; they weren’t a social group. Wakefielder was bent over the desk, squaring the stack of tests. Bernadette went up to the opposite side of the table. “Professor Wakefielder?”
He set down the papers. “I’ll bet you’re the student who called about my class on—”
“I’m with the FBI,” she said.
Glancing up, he gave her a nervous smile. “What fresh hell is this?”
Bernadette paused, her attention darting to the board for an instant. She extended her ID. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”
His eyes went to the badge and then back to her face. “What can I do for you?”
“May we talk in your office, Professor Wakefielder?”
“I’m…down the hall,” he said hesitantly.
He led the way. Bernadette followed a step behind him, saying nothing. He was scared, and at the same time she swore he was baiting her. Bernadette knew the “fresh hell” crack was Dorothy Parker’s signature greeting, and the dead girl had picked that writer for her paper.
THREE WALLS of his office were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books of all sorts, organized in no sane fashion. George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Homage to Catalonia both rested atop a row of Stephen King paperbacks. The Stranger by Albert Camus was crammed between a collection of Anne Rice’s vampire novels. The Time Machine, The Maltese Falcon, and Fahrenheit 451 were followed by the Harry Potter books, which were followed by a fat book titled Library of World Poetry. More books by and about poets were wedged between other volumes and were used in stacks as bookends to hold up other books. Bernadette recognized the most famous names of the lot: Longfellow, Shelley, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Keats, Blake, Emerson. Finally, there were textbooks with titles like The Role of Confessional Poetry in Contemporary American Literature.
The only wall without books—the one with the door—was plastered with posters and other pop art. Psychedelic Pink Floyd poster from a London Concert. Ad announcing a Metropolitan Opera visit to Northrop Auditorium. Muhammad Ali/Joe Frazier boxing poster. Tin street sign that said “Fenway Park.” Poster of Winston Churchill with a plane-filled sky behind him and the words LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER.
As she stood in the doorway—the door itself was propped open with a phone book—he lifted some books and papers off a folding chair. “Excuse the mess.”
“You sh
ould see my office.” She walked inside and lowered herself into the seat. She didn’t spot a computer. He had to have a laptop buried somewhere under the mess, she thought. She’d love to get her mitts on it.
He went around and sat down behind his desk, a metal clunker piled high with more papers and books. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair, a cushy leather piece with arms. It was the only modern furnishing in the office. He smiled nervously. “I assume you’re here about the suicides.”
Bernadette didn’t answer immediately; she was stunned he’d gotten right to it. “How did you know?”
“I teach a university class called the Poetry of Suicide, and most of my students are young women. Young university women have been committing suicide by leaping off the Washington Avenue Bridge.” He leaned across the top of his desk and dropped his folded hands on a stack of papers. “I was waiting for someone to come to me for a consult.”
“A consult?”
“As a footnote, you should know I was one of the faculty who helped draft the open letter to the community pleading for peace.” He smiled. “‘Restrain the passions’ lawless riot.’ That was one of my contributions. It’s from Horace Smith’s ‘Moral Cosmetics.’ Not a particularly fun poem. ‘Ye who would have your features florid’—”
“Two of your students are dead, sir,” she interrupted. “What do you know about—”
“Two?” He took his hands off his desk and sat up stiffly in his chair. It squeaked with the sudden movement. “Who—”
“Kyra Klein.”
“She…I just spoke with her after class on Wednesday…She’s not—she can’t be…When?” He dragged his hand across his forehead as if scraping off sweat, but Bernadette could see none. “Don’t tell me she jumped from the—”
“Before her, there was the student in your class on madness,” said Bernadette, emphasizing the last word to prod him.
“Alice Bergerman dropped out after the first day of class. She wasn’t really one of my students. I spent two seconds talking to her after she decided to—”
“For someone you knew for two seconds, her name came to you pretty quickly.”
His face blanched, and he swallowed hard before answering. “The police talked to me over the phone to see if she’d demonstrated any despondency in class. When they found out that she’d dropped my course, they didn’t even bother to—”
“Where were you Wednesday night?”
“What?”
“Two of your students have died under mysterious circumstances.”
“Alice killed herself. The police said so. What happened to Kyra? Did she—”
“Why do you suppose two of your students have died? That can’t be pure coincidence. Even if they were both suicides—and I don’t believe they were—why would two of your students kill themselves?”
“I…My classes attract young women who are…tortured. Emotionally…tortured.”
“‘Tortured?’” Bernadette repeated. She didn’t like his use of the word.
“Look at the course titles. Madness in American Literature. The Poetry of Suicide. Sometimes they talk to me. I listen. They think because I teach the class, I know something about the mental illnesses themselves. I have some insight, certainly. I thought that’s why you were here.”
“That was a smokescreen on your part, or maybe wishful thinking,” she snapped.
He stood up and slammed his hands on his desk, knocking off a mound of papers. She reached inside her coat and put her hand on her gun. He had a temper, the caring, sensitive male.
“I want a lawyer. I am not talking to you any longer without a lawyer present.”
She could smell the sweat on him now, pushing through the cologne. She bet that under the nice blazer, his dress shirt sported armpit stains the size of dinner plates. Even though there was no record of the other bathtub victim having been one of his students, Bernadette tossed her name at him. “Shelby Hammond. What about her?”
“Never heard of her,” he said, coming around his desk and motioning with his hand toward the door. “Please.”
“You haven’t been arrested or charged with anything, Professor. I just need you to answer a few questions.” She stood up. “If another girl turns up missing or dead, your lack of cooperation could look bad.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He walked to the door and continued to motion with his hand. “Please leave. Please.”
She stayed standing in the middle of the office, one hand on her gun and the other on a business card. “Look, Professor. It’s obvious the kids like you.”
He shook his head back and forth. “Don’t try to—”
“You may know something that would help. Maybe one of the dead girls said something telling, something that you wouldn’t recognize as valuable.” She set a card on top of Flannery O’Connor—Collected Works. “Think about it.”
He walked into the hallway and turned around, waiting for her to leave. “You should think about talking to these girls’ health care providers. Some of these young women were really disturbed. Tortured.”
He used that word a little too frequently, thought Bernadette. She wondered what putting the word water in front of it would do for him.
SHE WALKED OUT of his office and felt his eyes on her until she went down the stairwell. When she got outside, she called Garcia. “I want to pull together a surveillance of this Professor Wakefielder. Tonight.”
Garcia said, “You sure?”
“I just left his office. He was sweating bullets. Pulled the lawyer card on me and clammed up.”
“That sure as hell isn’t enough to get a judge to bless a wiretap.”
“I’m not asking for one. Besides, I don’t want to deal with TSS,” she said, referring to the Technical Support Squad. They were nicknamed the Tough Shit Squad, because that’s what they said when turning down the many requests for their tech talent.
“So what do you want?”
“A vehicle parked out front.” She saw Wakefielder exit Lind Hall and ducked behind a tree to continue watching him. He had a lunch sack in his hand and was headed for the student union across the street. “If he drags a body out of the house over the weekend, it might make for a nice Kodak moment.”
“You really don’t have—”
“Two of the dead girls were his students. Two.”
“I’ll work on it,” he said. “I suppose Thorsson and his partner could use a little us time in the front seat of a car.”
That made her smile. “Sounds good.”
“What’re you doing now?”
She pulled out the square of paper Garcia had given her. “I made an appointment to see a Luke VonHader. He’s in the neighborhood.”
Chapter 17
THE MAN’S ATTENTION SHIFTED BACK AND FORTH BETWEEN the agent’s blue left eye and brown right eye. “I should have asked if you wanted cream or sugar.”
Bernadette accepted the mug from the receptionist—he’d introduced himself as Charles—and lowered herself into a chair. “Black is fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take your coat?”
She cupped the mug between her gloved hands. “I’m still trying to warm up.”
“It is cold out there,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow before Halloween.”
“That’s Minnesota for you,” she said, offering the gold-standard response to any weather report.
He left her side to dote on two girls, twins, who, along with their mother, were sharing the waiting room with her. The girls couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Bernadette wondered why such young things needed a psychiatrist.
“I’ve got a treat for you,” he said, and reached into his shirt pocket to withdraw a pair of lollipops. The girls snatched the suckers. Their mother looked up from her magazine and smiled at Charles. He led the twins and their mother into one room and came back and took Bernadette to another.
“Are they identical?” said Bernadette, trying to make c
onversation during the walk down the hall.
“I think so,” he said as he opened the doctor’s office door for her. “Twins are so…special.”
“They are,” she said, remembering her own twin. She went over to the couch, sat down, and patted the seat next to her. “Is this where all the action takes place?”
His blond brows arched like startled caterpillars. “Action?”
Bernadette smiled pleasantly. “Do the patients actually recline on this while talking to the doctor, like in the movies?”
“Sometimes, if they’ve had a really bad week.” He nodded toward a straight-backed chair facing the doctor’s desk. “But most patients sit over there.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything to extend the conversation. She wanted the candy man to take off.
He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything else? Another cup of coffee?”
She shook her head.
“Well…if you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.”
“Go right ahead,” Bernadette said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine by myself.”
As soon as Charles closed the door, Bernadette got up to snoop. Her first stop was VonHader’s desk, but the top was bare except for a telephone, an ink blotter, and a black-and-white family portrait. “A neat desk is a sign of a sick mind,” she muttered to herself.
She picked up the framed photo and examined it. A handsome man, obviously the doctor, was resting on his side on a beach with one leg stretched out and the other bent. An attractive woman in a wide-brimmed sunhat was seated cross-legged in front of his bent knee, cradling a baby. Behind the couple, a toddler girl stood with an arm draped over her mother’s shoulder. They were all in jeans, including the baby, but the man nevertheless seemed stiff and formal. While the others topped their outfits with T-shirts, he was in a dress shirt with buttoned cuffs. The group was smiling into the camera, but the man’s grin appeared forced. Almost pained. Bernadette got the distinct impression that Dr. Luke VonHader needed to lighten up.
Blind Rage Page 11