A Master's in Murder

by Katie Moon

Randall looked astonished. “What?”

  “Well, they might not be convinced, but I was just at the police station, and Officer Corey definitely suggested it,” she said miserably.

  “Why would they think it’s you, though,” Randall asked, staring blankly at her. “I mean, I asked you if everything was good between you and Eric, and you said they were.”

  “And they were!” Brielle answered fiercely. She sighed. “You know that girl that went missing, Claire Kunis? Turns out she was murdered. And they found Eric’s fingerprints on the murder weapon!”

  “You’re kidding!” Randall gasped, his jaw dropping to the floor.

  Brielle shook her head. “Yeah, but they don’t think he did it. They think someone falsely planted evidence. But they do think it’s the same person who killed Eric,” she said.

  Confusion crossed Randall’s face. “But how does that tie back to you?”

  Brielle stood up and began to pace, suddenly unable to sit still. “They already found evidence tying Eric’s murder back to Jared, his brother. And they think Jared and I were having an affair, so we worked together to get him killed. And that I was working with that girl, Claire, to steal from other students, and she found out what we were doing, so I killed her too.”

  Randall let out a snort. “That’s the flimsiest, most far-fetched theory I’ve ever heard. No one will believe that,” he said scornfully.

  “Yesterday I would’ve said that too, but when a police officer sits across from you and asks you where you were the night Claire Kunis died, it gets a little more real,” Brielle said, tugging fretfully on the end of her loose braid, walking a few steps before flipping around and retracing herself.

  After a moment of silence, Randall asked in a low voice, “So what are you going to do?”

  Brielle came to a halt in front of the window next to the door. Bending her neck around, she had a clear sight down the stairs to her own apartment.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. Brielle closed her eyes in hard concentration. “She’s got to be the key: Claire Kunis. It can’t be a coincidence that Eric’s prints turned up at her crime scene,” she muttered.

  “Listen, Brielle,” she heard Randall mumble awkwardly, and she opened her eyes. “You and Eric loved each other, I know that. And I know you don’t want to believe he was the one to kill her. But maybe he was involved is something… something bad. Or maybe he got roped into something and couldn’t find a way out, you know. I mean, his prints were on the mallet, after all…”

  Brielle didn’t answer as he trailed off. She was staring out the window, her eyes wide. As she looked at her own rustic apartment door through the window, another memory had popped into her mind from only a week ago: an auburn haired, petite young woman with a doll-like face and salon-quality makeup was standing at the bottom of the stairs; she smiled timidly at Eric as he greeted her politely before entering the apartment where Brielle sat watching and waiting. That had been Eric’s last Sunday alive.

  The drum of Brielle’s heartbeat quickened. She hadn’t recognized her. She had been wearing such dramatic makeup that night that she looked like a different person. But no, after seeing her face so many times in the past week, Brielle was certain. That’s why she looked so familiar.

  Claire Kunis had been outside their apartment the night she died.

  She had been standing 20 feet away from them. Brielle had seen her through the window as she watched Eric approach. She had to have disappeared within hours of that moment. But it hadn’t seemed like Eric knew her. So why had she turned up dead, with his prints on the weapon? And what did Randall just say? His prints were on the mallet…. Brielle screwed up her face in concentration…. On the mallet… Why was Claire going up the stairs?... Mallet….

  “I never told you the weapon was a mallet, Randall.”

  Still standing with her back to Randall, she heard him gingerly take a step forward. “What? Of course you did. You said his prints were on the mallet that killed Claire,” he said earnestly.

  Brielle’s heart was thudding against her rib cage. “She was here to see you,” she whispered. Everything in the world seemed to be frozen in that moment. Brielle could feel goosebumps rising on her arms. Her eyes darted to the door handle. This is your last chance, a petrified voice whispered in her head. She could feel her throat closing up in terror. Quick, before he stops you!

  Pouncing, Brielle clasped a hand on the door handle, but it was too late; as she felt a terrible pain shoot suddenly through the back of her skull, everything went black.

  26

  He could feel something uncomfortably jabbing him in the back. With a small grunt, Mason shifted, his head sliding further down the dog-eared cushion. Smacking his lips softly, he let out a long, exhausted sigh and squinted. The blinding white light of the muted television stung his eyes, shining like a beacon in the darkened room. Mason rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Groggily, he sat up straighter. What time is it? Wincing, he rubbed his aching neck as he looked around for his phone. Feeling around in the darkness, Mason’s hand closed around the hard rectangle that had been incessantly prodding his lower back. Fumbling his fingers across the screen, Mason grimaced as the glaring screen light activated, blazing into his drowsy face at full blast. Peeking through the slits in his eyelids, Mason realized that, at 7:40 PM, he had unintentionally slept the afternoon away.

  Yawning widely, Mason stretched back into the chair, distractedly scratching his head. Through two bleary eyes, Mason watched the silky-haired Asian newswoman indifferently as she mouthed silently to the camera. He suddenly became aware of the gnawing in his stomach. Licking his lips, Mason debated whether to attempt to throw a meal together with the scraps he had in his apartment or to get his regular at the nearby taco shop. Staring absently at the TV screen, Mason tried to recall how many boxes of ramen he had left in the cupboard. Maybe I could make some—

  Distracted, Mason gaped at the screen, eyes glued on the face staring back at him. The picture he had seen so many times in the past week of a grinning Claire Kunis was beaming up at him. Under the dazzling white smile, a menacing headline leered up at Mason: “Police Suspect Same Killer Murdered Two UNC Students.” He snatched up the remote and fumbled with the buttons, accidentally changing channels and switching back before finally unmuting the television. Immediately, the newswoman’s smooth, authoritative voice filled the room.

  “—students Eric Artimer and Claire Kunis were both found dead this past week. Artimer was hit by a car while crossing a street next to UNC campus, while Kunis was found at Falls Lake after apparently slipping and falling to her death.

  “Artimer’s death was previously discovered to be a premeditated homicide, executed by Mr. Theodore Walters, also known as Kevin Trent. However, evidence discovered at Falls Lake indicates that Kunis’s death may have also occurred under suspicious circumstances, and that her head injury may have been caused by a weapon, rather than an accidental fall. In fact, according to a source at the Durham Police Department, authorities believe it is likely that the two University of North Carolina students were murdered by the same individual.”

  In just seconds, the atmosphere had suddenly shifted. Mason felt a cold chill creeping up his neck, although the heater was pouring warm air into the already cozy room. The dark hairs on his forearms were standing up straight as goosebumps erupted over his skin. She was murdered? Mason thought incredulously. His mind was spinning. Claire had not just been murdered. She had been murdered by the same person who killed Eric. Whoever it was had known both of them. Claire and Eric. Who was the missing piece between the two?

  And then it hit him. Mason’s chest rose and fell rapidly as the pieces began to align in his brain. Mason knew of one person who was close with Eric, thanks to the time he had spent studying with Brielle. Hadn’t he seen Claire with him?

  Mason closed his eyes, trying to focus on that night. It had been Sunday, the 15th. He had just wanted to talk with Brielle. When she smiled at him,
it made him feel like he was somebody for once. Her tinkling laugh always made his heart leap. She helped him feel less alone. He had become perhaps a little too attached to her. But he had just wanted to talk, that’s all.

  When he had reached the overgrown shrubs that skirted her apartment, though, he had panicked. Through the front window, he had just been able to make out her long, fluid figure as she hunched over a notebook on the couch. Her dark curls cascaded down her head, hiding her face from view. She looked perfect. He didn’t want to look away. His eyes searched her concentrated face. It felt like a hungry lion had awoken in Mason’s chest, roaring deeply. She intoxicated him. For one crazy moment, Mason considered just watching her through the window for as long as he wanted. He ogled at her, fascinated by her full, dark lips, her deep, alluring eyes, her—

  Stop, he had thought angrily to himself. This is wrong. What am I doing? He shook his head back and forth, fighting the burst of hormones that were attempting to control him. This isn’t what we came for, he told himself angrily. You shouldn’t be looking at her this way. So just talk to her or leave. In a deep breath, Mason had tried to coax himself toward her door but had frozen. Soft knocks on cement alerted him that someone was coming down the stairs. In desperation, Mason had thrown himself into the overrun bushes, shrinking low to the dirt floor to avoid detection. As he tumbled into the crackling leaves, he heard the footsteps stop. Mason couldn’t hear anything but the distant whirring of car engines and a man’s labored breaths. After a moment, apparently satisfied that the disturbance had been caused by some interloping animal, the footsteps began again. Mason had listened as the labored breaths got louder, and he knew that whoever it was couldn’t be more than a few steps away from his hiding place. Suddenly, the voice had whispered softly, causing Mason’s heart to nearly jump out of his throat.

  “C’mon, I’ve got you… We’re almost there.”

  “Nnnnnuh….” Someone mumbled, and Mason realized that he had not heard the woman coming down the stairs.

  “C’mon, into the car. There you go, other foot in, there we go…”

  Holding his breath, Mason peeked out a gap in the leaves. Under the bright moonlight, he had been able to see a man hunched over the passenger door of a dark sedan, gently guiding an attractive redhead into her seat. Her long straight mane of auburn spilled down her back while her head hung loosely on her shoulder, shifting in and out of consciousness. Mason had thought that she looked like she had had one too many drinks. Once both arms and legs had been carefully shoved into the car, the man had shifted back into standing position and closed the door. Brushing off his pants absently, the man had turned to stride around the front of the car to the driver’s side, making his profile starkly visible in the moonlight. His blonde hair glinting, Mason had recognized the man as Eric’s best friend, Randall, looking furtively around. They had met on a couple of occasions when Eric had dropped in with Randall to visit Brielle during their exam review sessions. Unlike Eric, who had always been considerate and kind to Mason, Randall had always struck him as more arrogant and self-serving. Eager to remain unseen, Mason had crouched lower as he watched Randall climb into the front seat and pull away quietly down the dark street.

  Mason opened his eyes, pulling his thoughts out of the vivid memory and back to the present. Eyes flying wildly around his apartment, he struggled to piece together the jumbled thoughts that were shuffling around in his brain. She wasn’t drunk, he realized, horrified. He had assumed that Randall was taking her home after partying a little too hard. And yet, without fully understanding where his sudden certainty had come from, Mason knew without a doubt that Randall had rendered her unconscious. Maybe he knocked her out in the apartment, he thought quickly. And then he took her to the lake.

  Horror crashed down over Mason as a terrible thought occurred to him. I could’ve saved her, he realized. I could’ve even saved Eric from dying too. I could’ve saved Brielle so much pain. Anguish washed over him like a tumultuous current, barraging him with the guilt of what could’ve been, had he been more aware. Still, as Mason fought the overwhelming sense of blame for Claire and Eric’s deaths, something nagged at him. Why Eric? Mason knew that Eric, Randall, and Brielle had always been close. From what he had observed, Eric and Randall had gotten along well and considered each other good friends. So why would Randall do that to Eric? To Brielle?

  Brielle. Mason’s stomach dropped painfully. He had to do something. She was in danger. He had seen in her eyes the commitment to finding Eric’s killer. If she went too far, Randall might feel the need to clean up her mess. Tapping madly on his phone, Mason pulled up his recent calls and selected “Brielle Daymon”. He pressed the phone to his ear and listened to the rings, his heart pounding. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.

  “Hello, this is Brielle. I am not available to come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you! Thanks!”

  Jumping to his feet, Mason slid around in the dark, searching for his shoes. Cursing frantically, he continued to grab at thin air in the dark until his fingers hit the firm sole of one upturned sneaker. Stuffing his feet unceremoniously into the shoes so that the tongue of the shoe was squished uncomfortably between his does, Mason stumbled to the door. Looking down at his phone, he fumbled over the keyboard as he began to time 9-1—

  He paused for a split second. Should he call the police? They might be able to help her more than he could. If anything bad happens, I might not be able to protect her, he thought ashamedly. He had never been able to protect himself, after all. For an instant, the face of his father spitting furiously at him flashed through his mind. But, Mason thought nervously, if I tell the police I was hiding outside her apartment, they might get the wrong idea. They might not take me seriously and leave Randall free to hurt Brielle.

  Making up his mind, Mason stuffed his cell phone deep into his sweatshirt pocket. He flung the door open, welcoming in a biting cold gust of wind. Bracing himself against the bitter winter air, Mason threw himself forward into the dark shadows of the night.

  27

  She felt like there was a drummer in her brain, pounding painfully against her head at a steady, slow beat. With a small groan, she tried to lift her head. Brielle’s eyelids twitched as she tried to force them open, attempting to escape the black hole of muddy unconsciousness. A stinging ache shot through her skull, and she winced. Gritting her teeth, she tried to lift her hand to her forehead. With an abrupt jerk against cold metal, her hand froze, unable to move any further.

  “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

  Brielle’s eyes flew open. Squatting a foot away from her, looking positively amused, was Randall. He smiled broadly at her, but it was smile that Brielle had never seen before. Shadows cast from the flickering light gave his face the appearance of being twisted and misshapen. The crooked grin looked more like a cruel sneer, and there was a hunger in Randall’s electric blue eyes that made Brielle’s hair stand on end.

  Brielle looked around. She was propped up in a sturdy, wooden chair against the wall next to the kitchen sink. The door to the living room stood ajar, and she could make out the lavish couch in the glowing blue light of the TV screen. The shades behind the couch had been pulled closed. Glancing down in the dim kitchen light, she saw what had restrained her hands. Wrapped around each hand were several tight coils of thin copper wire, shackling her to the chair.

  Brielle coughed weakly, and another painful shock rippled through her head. She could feel a dull throbbing on the back of her head where Randall had struck her. Numbly, Brielle said in a slurred voice, “You.”

  Randall let out a loud bark of laughter. “Surprise, right? You get to meet the man behind the mask,” he said. Brielle looked frantically around the room, her brain vehemently rejecting what her eyes were telling her. Randall? she thought incredulously. It can’t be. We sat together, mourned together. He and Eric were comrades in everything. Every time they had sat and reflected on how they w
ould get by without Eric, it had always been a façade. When Randall had pondered if they would find the killer, it had been in self-preservation. When he had stood over Eric’s coffin, it had been in mockery. Brielle had cried with him. But it had all been a lie.

  Randall watched intently as Brielle’s eyes zoomed desperately around the kitchen. “You know, it was almost humorous to see you spinning in circles, confiding in and seeking solace from the one person who was at the heart of it all. There were a couple times that I thought you had caught on to something, but you always came up with a different person as the killer.

  “You should’ve stopped, though. I gave you warnings. I gave you so many chances to give up. But you just wouldn’t stop, would you?” he sighed, standing up and turning to the counter behind him. “I think I knew, even with how much trust you unconditionally gave me, we would end up here, like this.” He turned to face Brielle again, and she felt terror crawling up her arms like a swarm of agitated ants. Randall was flexing his fingers inside a pair of white rubber gloves.

  “Why? Why did you do it?” Brielle burst out, staring angrily at Randall. I have to keep him talking! she thought desperately. Every moment she was able to stall was a moment that someone might find them.

  Randall smiled at her shrewdly, guessing her thoughts. “No one is going to find us, Brielle. Your phone is off. It’s getting late. No one will be looking for you until morning, and by then you will be long gone. So there’s no need to try to stall,” he whispered, taking a step toward her. “I just waited to kill you so I could see the look on your face as you slip away. It was so fascinating to see Claire’s face, you know. I’ve never seen such naked terror before. Movies try to recreate it, but they can’t do it justice.”

  “He was your best friend,” Brielle cried, tears now pooling in her eyes. Randall should’ve been one Eric could rely on, but he betrayed him.