by Amy Cross
She mutters something, but as usual her voice is kind of quiet and mumbled.
"Sorry?" I ask. "I didn't quite catch that."
"It wasn't a problem," she says, enunciating each word a little more carefully. "I didn't have that problem."
"A lot of people miss the bigger picture," I continue. "They focus on the end result, and they ignore the meticulous steps that are required to get there. Some are even foolish enough to think that inspiration can be a reliable substitute for logical deduction." I pause, waiting for her to say something, but I guess that's a forlorn hope with Paula Clarke; after all, the girl's quieter than anyone I've ever met, as if she expects her every utterance to be met with condemnation and scorn. I swear to God, she always seems scared to speak. "How's post-grad life treating you, anyway?"
"Fine," she says, barely making eye contact. "I'm enjoying the course."
"Huh," I reply, "but what about the rest of it? Beyond the course, if you know what I mean. Are you settling in okay?"
She nods.
"I guess it doesn't help when your tutor calls you out to stay after class," I say with a smile.
She stares at me.
"The reason I wanted to speak to you," I say, realizing that I'm going to have to broach the subject eventually, "is that last night I started grading the first batch of essays that I asked your class to write, on gender and sociological reactions to criminal cases. It was fun. Yours was the third essay I got to, after two that had been filled with fairly ordinary regurgitation of the key talking points. Your essay, Ms. Clarke, was a little different. I hope you don't mind it if I say that it was not the kind of essay that I'd imagined someone such as yourself might write."
"What was wrong with it?" she asks, looking scared.
"Nothing was wrong with it, exactly," I reply. "It's just that it wasn't necessarily in the academic style I'd expect. Parts of it were more like a manifesto."
"I can redo it," she says timidly.
"I'm not asking you to redo it," I reply. "Not entirely. However, there were a few passages that struck me as being a little..." I pause, realizing that if I choose the wrong word, I might upset her. "One or two paragraphs came across as being very personal. It was as if you were simply relating your own response to the text, without backing anything up with sources. That's fine for a reflective essay, but this was supposed to be a more analytical, academic piece -"
"I'll rewrite it," she says. "I'll have the new version for you tomorrow."
"You don't have to rewrite the whole thing," I point out. "It just frustrates me a little that half the essay is really good, really well-written, and then the other half tends toward personal expression, almost creative writing. If you could maybe tighten those florid passages up a little and resubmit, I think that'd be good. It's always nice to start the year with a good grade, and you're clearly a very good student. It's just that..." Pausing for a moment, I reach back into my bag and pull out a folder, from which I remove Paula's essay. "I think this is the first essay I've read," I say after a moment, "where a student has explicitly tried to argue in favor of violence and murder."
She stares at the desk, as if she's scared to look directly at me.
"You argue that violence is an inescapable part of the relationship between men and women," I continue, "and that men have spent so many centuries behaving violently toward women, that it's time for the reverse to happen. If I didn't know better, Paula, I'd interpret this as a call to arms. It's as if you think women should rise up and enslave men. That's an interesting talking point, and maybe it's something we can discuss on a theoretical level in one of the seminars, but in an essay..."
"I'll rewrite it," she says, reaching out and snatching the essay from my hand. She still isn't looking at me, but I can see that her face is a little red, as if she's blushing. "Can I go now?"
"Are you aware that you haven't looked at me once?" I ask. "Not directly, anyway. You haven't made eye contact with me during this entire conversation."
She carefully lifts her head and stares straight at me, but she's clearly very uncomfortable.
"Is that so hard?" I ask.
She opens her mouth, but no words come out. It's as if the effort of meeting my gaze is in some way causing her a huge amount of emotional distress.
"So you don't need to go to extremes," I continue, hoping to defuse the slightly tense atmosphere, "but if you could maybe cut out the more seditious sections of the essay, pop in some more analysis, and then resubmit it in a day or two, I think we'll be back on the right track. Is that okay with you?"
She nods, before folding the essay and slipping it onto her coat pocket.
"Have a nice weekend," I add, figuring that I should add something that lets her know she can leave.
As I watch her hurry up the steps that lead to the door at the rear of the theater, I can't help but realize that Paula Clarke is one of the strangest students I've ever met. I've only been teaching for five years, but I've never met anyone who's so socially awkward. It's as if there's some kind of tumult in her soul, and she has to carefully filter every word that comes from her lips. I feel sorry for her, in a way, because she seems to find even the shortest conversations to be hard work. I didn't mean to torture her; I only meant to give her some gentle guidance.
"Paula!" I call out as she gets to the door.
Startled, she turns to me, and once again it's as if she's terrified.
"Did you really believe what you wrote in the essay? About violence and gender? I mean, you made some very interesting points about how men and women view one another's bodies. I was just wondering if you were asking rhetorical questions, or if you were genuinely trying to make such provocative suggestions."
She pauses. "I don't know," she says eventually.
"Okay," I reply, surprised by her answer. "Well, it's something to think about. Just make sure you present ideas in a more analytical and academic manner in future. I think you've got a very bright future."
She mutters something inaudible before hurrying through the door, leaving me standing alone in the empty theater. I have no doubt that our conversation has probably left Paula in a paroxysm of social anxiety, and I'm quite certain that within a couple of days she'll have delivered a rewritten essay that's a vast improvement over her initial draft. Hopefully she'll come out of her shell a little and become easier to talk to, though, because otherwise the next two years are going to be a lot of hard work. Snapping the fastener closed on my bag, I haul it over my shoulder and head for the door. After the morning I've had, particularly reading the ideas presented in Paula's essay, I need a drink.
I also need to do some digging into Paula's background; I need to make sure that she's suitable for the project.
Joanna Mason
"The body was found next to a dumpster," says Dawson, lifting the police tape that marks the boundary of the crime scene. We're in an alley that runs behind one of the city's more prestigious hotels, and there's already a swirl of police and crime scene investigators getting to work. "A worker from the hotel was sent to clean the area because of an increase in the number of flies. Apparently the chef thought some rotting meat had been left out. I guess, in a way, he was right."
As we reach the other side of the dumpster, I see the body. Twelve years ago, when I started on the force, the sight of a decomposing human corpse would have made me vomit; now, even with the chemotherapy drugs still in my system, I don't have any kind of physical reaction at all. I just stare at the discolored, bloated skin, and at the half-open mouth that reveals a set of yellowed teeth. The body has clearly been here for a while, and even the patch of blood on the ground seems to have turned black with age.
"I wouldn't have called you in," Dawson continues after a moment, "but I could use your input. Unofficially, of course."
"Who am I looking at?" I ask.
"An as-yet-unidentified male," Dawson replies, scratching his nose. "Age, skin color and all that jazz still to be determined, I'm afraid. The clot
hing looks fairly casual, maybe jeans and a leather jacket but there's so much leakage from the body, it's gonna take a while to get everything separated out. Forensics have got their work cut out for them, as they keep reminding me. There are maggots, for one thing, and the fluids have gone all over the place. This is one of those cases where everyone kind of holds their nose, if you know what I mean."
Turning and looking back along the alley, I realize that my initial concern was correct: this is the exact same spot where Rachel Blackman was found murdered more than ten years ago. In a city with a soaring murder rate, it's by no means impossible that eventually one murderer would dump a body in the same place that was once used by another murderer, but even a gossamer-thin connection is worth further examination. In fact, I remember standing in almost this exact same spot all those years ago, looking down at Rachel's body. The only real difference was that she was fresh, whereas this latest guy is over-ripe.
"So I was thinking," Dawson continues after a moment, finally getting to the point that he's been circling ever since he phoned me a couple of hours ago. "Isn't this more or less where Sam Gazade left his first victim?"
I turn to him.
"If you don't mind me asking."
"It's exactly where he left his first victim," I reply, before turning to look back down at the rotten corpse. A forensic examiner is crouching by the body, taking a closer look at the neck area. I still remember the day, twelve years ago, when Rachel Blackman's body was discovered in this alley; in fact, she was in the same spot, and possibly even the same position, as this new body.
"Pretty big coincidence," Dawson says. "I mean, with Gazade back in the news."
"Gazade's been in the news non-stop for a decade," I point out.
"Sure, but he's back on the front pages now. The papers are all speculating about the fact that he's not putting in a bid to delay the execution. Some of them think he's finally accepted his guilt, others think he's found religion. Either way, you've got to admit, this is an interesting time to have another body dumped where Rachel Blackman was found." He pauses, and it's clear that he doesn't want to be the one who says what we're both thinking. "If I remember rightly," he continues, "wasn't she leaning with her back against the wall, just like this guy?"
"Rachel Blackman was tortured for a week before she died," I remind him, trying not to think back to the sight of that woman's body on the mortuary slab. "She was mutilated. Gazade chose his victims because he wanted to have a romantic relationship with them. He kept them in a cage and tried to woo them, and when they surprisingly didn't succumb to his charms, that's when he turned nasty and started cutting. It was a very specific case and Gazade had a unique way of working. He didn't go around leaving bloated, decomposing corpses all over the place."
"Could it be a tribute?" Dawson suggests.
"Seriously?"
"Why not? It's the day before the execution, so maybe someone decided to copy one of Gazade's most famous murders, just to kind of show that his spirit's going to live on. I know it sounds pretty sick, but we both know that the world is full of sick people, right?"
"This is no tribute," I reply, staring at the corpse's still-open, half liquified eyes. I've never understood why I find it easier to maintain eye contact with a dead body than with someone who's alive, but the rule seems to hold true even when the body has been fly-food for a few days. "Unless this victim has a mutilated vagina, which I doubt given that he's a he, I think we're looking at nothing more than a coincidence. Whoever did this, they probably had no idea that Sam Gazade dumped a body here."
"On the exact same day." He pauses. "It's October 5th. Wasn't Blackman found on October 5th?"
I nod.
"You see my problem," he continues. "Not enough to make it a definitive copycat, but enough to make me wonder. On the twelfth anniversary, the silk anniversary, of Rachel Blackman's death, another body is found in the exact same spot, just a day before Blackman's murderer is due to be executed."
"Blackman was murdered and dumped just a few hours before she was found," I reply. "This guy's clearly been dead for days, maybe even a week. It's not the same. You've got a couple of coincidences, but not nearly enough. This is just another murder in a city where murders happen all the time. Don't read too much into it. Bag the guy up and try to find the perpetrator without getting bogged down in elaborate theories."
"That's kinda what I figured," Dawson says, with a hint of cautious relief in his voice. "Well, it's what I was hoping, but I wanted to get your opinion first. I hope you didn't mind coming back down here."
"Why would I mind?" I ask, turning to him.
"I don't know," he says, "it's just... not a place that I imagine fills you with much joy."
"It's been twelve years," I point out.
"Huh. Silk."
"Silk?"
"Silk anniversary," he replies. "That's what twelve years is called. When you're married, at least."
Sighing, I check my watch and see that it's almost 3pm. "I have to get to an appointment," I mutter, glad that I have an excuse to get away.
"Oh," he replies, sounding a little surprised. "Okay. It's just, I remembered you saying you had to be somewhere today, but I thought you said it was before lunch."
"I had an appointment before lunch," I reply, "and I have another one in an about an hour. Two in one day. Lucky me." I look back down at the corpse for a moment. "Keep me informed on this one. Just in case. I know it's your case, but I'd like to get a copy of the autopsy results. Even if it's all just a coincidence, I'd rather keep on top of it. Good luck." With that, I turn to walk away.
"So are you going tomorrow?" Dawson calls after me.
Stopping, I turn to him.
"Sorry," he replies, "I just wondered. A lot of people would. I mean, I would. Definitely. If someone got to me the way he got to you, I'd want to watch the fucker die, just to make sure." He waits for me to reply. "So... are you?"
"I'm busy tomorrow," I reply. "Washing my hair."
"That's what I figured," he says. "I told the others, you're not the kind of person to go and crow over an execution."
"What others?" I ask.
"We were just talking about it the other day," he replies. "I mean, we weren't talking about you. Well, I guess we were in a way, but not in a bad way, we were just..." He pauses. "You seem a little different lately, Joanna. We've known each other for a while, so if something's wrong -"
"Nothing's wrong," I say firmly.
"You just seem a little pale," he continues, "and sometimes you look like you're about to throw up. You're not..."
"What?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says, even though it's painfully obvious what's on his mind.
Sighing, I realize that although Dawson has clearly picked up on a few of my health problems, he's come to totally the wrong conclusion. "I'm not sick," I tell him. "I'm fine. I guess I just haven't been sleeping very well lately."
"Because of the Sam Gazade execution?"
"Sure."
"Well, I guess you'll sleep like a baby after tomorrow night, huh? Once he's dead?"
"I guess so," I reply, even though I know things aren't that simple. Sure, Sam Gazade is going to be put to death, and I'm fine with that, but my cancer is going to be much harder to kill.
"As long as you're okay," Dawson says, sounding as if he's given up pressing me for answers, at least for now.
"I'm fine, I tell him again, before turning and hurrying away. I swear to God, if one more person asks me if I'm going to attend Sam Gazade's execution, I'll scream. I understand that most people, even within the force, have this morbid fascination with the guy, but I wish they'd accept that for me, the case is long over. I've got more important things to do than stand around watching as Gazade dies. I've moved on, even if the city hasn't. I caught the guy; twelve years later, I don't feel the need to do a victory dance while he's being pumped full of lethal drugs. Let him die alone, without the attention he always craved.
Dr. Alic
e Huston
"You ever had a weird student?" I ask, as Harry Gillespie and I sit in the cafeteria.
"I've never had a normal one," he replies, taking another swig from his bottle of water. "There's something wrong with all of them. Eating disorders. Attention deficit issues. Paranoia. Some of them are even psychopaths. You know the ones I mean. Bunch of fucking freaks. The funny thing is, the real fuck-ups often turn out to be the most successful graduates. Captains of industry, that sort of thing. Crazy world, huh?"
"But within that range," I say with a half-smile, "have you ever had one who's weird in a different way?"
He frowns. "Go on."
"I just mean..." Pausing, I realize that I need to be careful here. For one thing, I can't name any names; for another, I have to make sure I don't sound like some kind of paranoid jerk. I want to be fair, but at the same time I need to talk to someone about my concerns. Paula Clarke's essay really got to me, and while I'd like to write it off as being nothing more than some colorful rhetoric, I can't help wondering if she really believes some of the things she wrote. "There's this girl in one of my classes," I continue, "and sometimes I think she's a little... scary."
"Scary?"
"She concerns me."
He pauses. "In what way?"
"At first it was just her general attitude. She's very quiet, but in a way that seems like it might be more than just shyness. I'm the last person who'd ever judge anyone just because they don't talk too much, but this seems like a kind of insularity that borders on a disability. She's a graduate student, twenty-three years old, but she seems shut off from the world, as if she genuinely doesn't know how to comport herself. When she makes eye contact with me, which is pretty rare, she has this expression of contempt, almost as if she resents the fact that she has to listen to what I have to say. Sometimes, I feel as if she just says whatever she thinks will shut me up the fastest."