Killer Curriculum

by Douglas Alexander

  Booker chimed in, “Every time security was busy watching the biker freak out about losing, one of his friends at the table was silently collecting the winnings from the hand.”

  “They must have raked in some dough,” Ski added as he was doing the math in his head.

  Sarah finally spoke up, apparently over her outburst. “Wilson said they got over thirty grand just this past month.” Ski whistled in appreciation.

  “Let’s return to today’s lesson.” Booker redirected the conversation. “What do you do when you find yourself back at square one?” He then paused as he tended to do in class. He never answered for his students. If he felt he had asked a legitimate question, then he would wait as long as he had to for the answer. All three students and the detective seemed to ponder for a moment.

  “Go back through and re-examine the evidence,” Kara said. Hopping from the rocking chair to the top of Booker’s desk.

  “Exactly.” The professor nodded his approval. Kara’s posture straightened with pride as she dangled her legs off the end of the desk.

  “Of course,” Max mocked, grimacing at the cheerleader. He punched a few keys and pulled all of their data back up on the screen. Documents and photos cascaded over each other.

  “The one thing we did get from our interview was that, according to Wilson, Henry’s supposedly-fragile wife was more than capable of killing her husband,” Sarah said, taking a seat alongside the other students.

  Ski grunted approval. “Everything I’ve picked up from around town follows that. Some of the neighbors say that the two of them used to really have some knock-down-drag-out fights. And Henry wasn’t the only one swinging.” He adjusted his pipe in his mouth. “The rumor around the trailer park is that the Missus is a real piece of work.” As he spoke, Max brought the picture of Aimee Glazer to the front of the screen.

  “One big problem with that theory,” Sarah added, “Booker and I interviewed Aimee. She’s maybe one hundred and fifteen pounds, and she may be feisty, but she’s got no muscle tone.”

  Sarah paused, subconsciously flexing her own biceps. “There’s no way she carried her husband’s corpse down that steep embankment and then strung him up in the tree,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t buy it.”

  Booker looked down in thought for a moment. “Maybe she used some machinery or pulleys to lighten the load?” As Booker stared miles past the classroom, it was obvious to his students that he was going over hundreds of scenarios in his mind, even as he stated only one out loud.

  “Not possible,” Ski added as he tapped out his pipe. “Maxie, pull up those pictures we took at the crime scene.” Max did as requested and pictures of the surrounding area and the nearby tree popped up on the projection screen. The old man pointed with the end of his pipe. “Any type of large machine would have dug up that whole area. There would be imprints in the dirt, mud, and all up and down that hill. Even if she tried to cover it up afterward, the whole area would look freshly disturbed or raked.”

  The pictures of the ground that he indicated were evidence this was not the case. “And as far as pulleys? Same thing,” Ski said. “Any type of pulley system or lifting device would have left marks on the overhanging tree limb.”

  Ski nodded to Max, who brought up a close-up of the limb. “And Miss Monkey over there got us a great look at that. No marks that weren’t left by the wire that was used to hang old Henry.”

  “Well if the goal here is to dismiss all our ideas, then we are doing a bang-up job, gang,” Sarah remarked, her frustration evident.

  The professor looked frustrated himself, but then he paused and looked at Sarah. “As a wise man once said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

  “Who said that?” Sarah asked.

  All three students, who doubtlessly had heard the quote numerous times, answered in unison: “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes.

  “That is what we’re doing, my dear detective.” Booker’s eyes glinted as if he had nearly called her “Watson.”

  He continued, “We have already made progress because we, at the very least, know what we aren’t looking for. Keeping Aimee Glazer as an option only leaves us with one other option then. She would have needed an accomplice to help with the heavy lifting. Anyone have thoughts on that?”

  Silence infiltrated the room as the group all pondered some options. At last, Sarah spoke up, “We don’t know enough about her to really get a good idea who she might have conspired with.”

  Standing, she took a few steps and looked at Aimee’s face on the screen again. “We need surveillance. I can get approval for someone to watch her house. Maybe we can find something out that way.”

  “Possibly,” Booker said. “I actually know where she is going to be tonight. Rebecca Vance’s book launch party at the Lucky Roll.”

  Ski began to chuckle, and Sarah looked surprised. “How the hell do you know that? Have you been tracking her?” She asked.

  The professor leaned against his desk next to where Kara was perched. “I saw the invitation on her refrigerator at the house when we interviewed her.” Sarah’s eyes raised, and Booker asked, “Did you think I was just bored, walking aimlessly around her house?”

  “I thought, perhaps…” Sarah trailed off, slightly embarrassed for having underestimated the professor again. “But how does that help us? And how do you plan to surveil her covertly from inside? It’s a selective event, from what I understand. I mean I could get in with my badge, but—”

  Booker tapped his cane, interrupting her. “I know people.” He grinned. “I think it’s time for some extra credit.”

  Chapter 13- Group Work

  Sarah leaned against her motorcycle at the front entrance of the Lucky Roll Gaming Center, trying to discretely replace the boots she rode with for high heels. She stowed the boots and jacket in the rear compartment of the bike, and stood up straight, tugging the hem of her black dress down to her knees.

  “Wow you clean up nice detective,” a squeaky voice called out.

  Sarah spun around to find Kara, sporting her own black dress with gold embroidery across the shoulders. Sarah guessed it was a remnant from a sorority mixer or a prom gone by. She smiled, remembering the days when her old prom dress was the only fancy “grown-up” attire in her closet.

  “Kara, it’s nice to see you without your pom-poms,” Sarah retorted.

  “Ladies, am I going to have to change your assigned seats?” This time, they both turned to see Booker, looking as if he’d just stepped out of a magazine in his perfectly-tailored black tuxedo and a black silk tie. He was tucking a white, flawlessly-folded pocket square into his left breast pocket, trying not to look smug.

  Sarah was impressed, and by the quick little gasp she heard from Kara, she wasn’t the only one. She decided to cut the mood with levity. “I’m surprised you left the house without a waistcoat,” she quipped.

  Booker held up a finger to hush the crowd. Unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket, he proudly displayed a matching black vest underneath.

  Sarah smiled. “I stand corrected.” The professor smiled back and motioned to both of them to follow as he walked across the parking lot.

  As they approached the series of steps leading up to the grand doors, Max and Ski could be seen leaning against the wall, caught up in conversation. Max, in a pair of khaki pants, blue shirt, and tie, was pointing to a cellphone in his hand and trying to show his older compatriot something.

  When the two ladies and professor got closer, Ski’s unmistakably gravelly voice became louder. He shouted, “I’m telling you, Maxie, that’s how they get ya!”

  The older gentleman was dressed in a quality wool suit that despite its apparent age, still looked stylish. On Ski, who normally was happy in jeans, an old flannel, and his knit cap, Sarah thought it looked alien.

  “Are we interrupting a life-altering conversation?” Booker asked, alerting them
of everyone’s presence.

  “Hardly,” Max said, and then added pleadingly, “but can you tell this fossil that the government is not trying to watch him through the camera on his cellphone?”

  Sarah couldn’t remember having seen Booker laugh before, but this made him erupt. He had a warm sincere laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Ski, you’re killing me!” Booker answered. “What exactly is it that you do that the government would be so interested in watching?”

  The old man thought for a second and then defended, “Never you mind, Professor. That’s my own business.” Then he grinned too at the thought. “Hey, ladies! Looking good.” Ski gave a little mock bow.

  “Benjamin, you stepped up your game,” Sarah replied approvingly of his appearance.

  “Benjamin’s too formal, sweetie. Like I said, Ski will do just fine. But you shouldn’t be surprised by the getup. I’m no slouch, you know.”

  He refrained from adding that the truth was, his wife was mostly responsible for his appropriate attire and instead held out his elbow. “Shall we?” Sarah took his arm, towering over him in her heels, and started up the stairs.

  As they left, Max offered his arm to Kara. He looked down at her three-inch-high heels. “How’s it feel to finally be over five feet?” He joked.

  Kara was not amused, driving one of the heels down on his foot, and stomping up the stairs without him. He yelped and followed suit. Booker, shaking his head, started up the stairs after the group, his cane slowing him.

  The lobby of the Lucky Strike was much brighter than the gaming floor. White marble encased the walls and floor, with a large glass domed ceiling overhead. A staircase laced opposite walls, leading up to the event area, a large ballroom.

  Centered exactly between the two staircases was an obnoxiously large painting of Patrick “the Crusher” O’Connell, the father of the sibling owners. The painting had small lights highlighting it and regal looking tapestries bordering it. The scene was almost more like an altar to the deceased patriarch more than a homage. Chandeliers dangled from a high ceiling as the group reached the ballroom. Banners and a few standup cardboard cutouts of a beautiful blonde woman, whom Sarah assumed was Rebecca Vance, were visible in all directions.

  Sarah thought, this is a classy set-up, as she surveyed the tuxedoed servers carrying silver trays of hors d’oeuvres all around the room. Max and Kara grabbed glasses of champagne from a waitress, who silently floated past. Booker stopped and motioned for the group to close ranks. Once they were inconspicuously circled up, he gave out assignments.

  “Max, you’re our eyes. Find a spot where you can see everything, and text any of us if you spot Aimee Glazer.” Booker assigned. The young man brushed the bangs off his caramel skin and grinned.

  “You know I got this,” he answered.

  Next, the professor looked at Ski. “They serve coffee at the bar. Hang out there and see what kind of gossip or information you can pick up. You tend to be quite the charmer when you want to.”

  Ski gave a halfhearted salute and began walking toward the bar on the far wall. Booker yelled after him, “And no smoking! You’ll burn the whole place down.” The old man gave a slight wave in acknowledgment.

  Just as he turned to Kara to delegate, another voice interrupted from behind him. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding yourself August.” The three remaining members of the group spun to find a blonde bombshell in a tight red dress. Sarah considered her: tall for a woman, probably just a few inches shy of six foot in heels. Her dress was definitely form-fitting and eye-catching, but classy. She was wearing just enough makeup to conceal any flaws, if she had any, but not enough to look like she was trying too hard.

  “Becky,” Booker said in a pleasant voice. “The woman of the hour.” Rebecca Vance slid in close to him and embraced August in an overly-familiar hug, simultaneously pushing Kara aside without even a glance.

  She whispered something in Booker’s ear, causing the professor to smile slightly. “It’s good to see you, too, Becky.” He said, pushing gently away to face his companions. “Becky, I’d like to introduce you to two of my associates, Detective Sarah Rimes of the Berksville Police Department, and Kara Allister, one of my best students.” The two ladies shook the author’s hand.

  “A cop and a college student,” Rebecca exclaimed. “How intriguing. I’m so glad you came to my launch. August always did seem to attract the most diverse range of groupies.” She brushed her hand playfully against Booker's lapel.

  “Groupies?” Kara started forward. “I’m going to—”

  “Whoa, tiger!” Sarah grabbed the younger girl by the arm. “Remember,” she whispered, “Vance isn’t our main objective tonight. Don’t let her rile you up.”

  If Rebecca heard any of this, she was too focused on Booker to react. The orchestra began playing. “Oh good, August you must dance with me for old times’ sake,” Rebecca pleaded.

  He nodded. “I’ll be right with you, Becky.”

  As she walked towards the center dancefloor, where random couples were beginning to shuffle around, Booker turned away. Looking slightly embarrassed, he said, “Kara, the widow doesn’t know you, so as soon as Max texts that he sees her, I want you on her all night. I want to know what she does, who she talks to, even what she eats. Got it?” Kara nodded, then reluctantly looking past him at Vance, she bit her lip, spun on her heel, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Don’t think you are going to give me orders,” Sarah said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, detective. To begin with, the widow knows your face, and you might scare her off. To end with… I need you as back-up to help deal with Becky.” He tossed her his cane and, limping, headed onto the dance floor. Sarah grimaced and faded into the crowd.

  Even though the professor had limited movement in his leg, the two partners locked into step fairly quickly. Booker steered the attractive blonde around the floor gracefully as she giggled to herself and occasionally whispered in his ear, her left hand tracing small circles on the back of his shoulder. It wasn’t long before others on the dance floor gave way to their mastery. Obviously, this was not their first time dancing together, and they drew the awe of most of the partygoers, including Kara.

  In the crowd of onlookers, Kara eyed the pair suspiciously. She didn’t like Rebecca Vance. Not one bit. She didn’t like the way she clearly attracted attention to herself. She didn’t like the way she giggled and acted overly familiar with Booker. Kara’s lips formed into a tight, pressed circle as she watched, powerless.

  Her angst was interrupted by the feel of her phone buzzing in her hand. She fired one last barrage of eye daggers at the author, then looked at the screen.

  The widow just walked up the stairs. The text came in from Max. Look to your right.

  She couldn’t help but see Aimee Glazer. Kara recognized her from the photo they had, but also, she was hard to miss. Aimee’s thin, rather underdeveloped looking frame was jammed into what really amounted to a slightly lengthened tube top. The “dress” started just over her breasts and ended roughly seven inches above her knees. And it was covered in blue sequins. It was by far the gaudiest ensemble Kara had ever seen, and that included two high school proms and a handful of sorority mixers. Mrs. Glazer had topped it all off with a pair of stilettos that were two inches higher than they should have been, making her seem like a drunken giraffe as she doddered across the marble floor.

  This should be easy, Kara thought. Quickly something in her stopped. She could hear Booker’s voice in her head telling her to suspend all preconceived notions. Okay, Kara, remember your steps. This is Deduction 101.

  Moving to a location along the wall where she could better see the widow, Kara snatched a champagne flute off a passing server’s tray. She slowly began to sip and observe.

  Aimee sauntered through the guests. It seemed like she was surveying the faces, possibly looking for someone she recognized. Playing amateur detective, Kara began focusing on all of the minuscule details of the wido
w. Her blonde hair had been straightened, but the stray clumps of curls in the back told Kara she had done it herself. Moreover, her makeup was caked on and sloppy. For such an elaborate event? Kara wondered. Her husband was bringing in money with the Chrome Horsemen, but obviously, he had never given that money to his wife, or she didn’t spend much on personal care. Judging by her outfit, Kara guessed it was the former. This was a woman who wanted to look good. If she had the money, she’d spend it.

  Detective Rime had said she lived in a low-income trailer park. The facts seemed to line up so far. Over the next few moments, as Aimee Glazer inhaled every alcoholic beverage that was offered in her path, her garish lipstick began to wash off, revealing something more interesting to the observant cheerleader. Aimee’s lips had been bitten, repeatedly. What could have the woman so anxious as to cannibalize her lips? If Booker was right, and Henry had been an abusive son of a bitch, Kara would have expected Aimee to be less anxious now that the perpetrator was dead. Unless something else is causing her anxiety, and possibly guilt? Kara surmised.

  Continuing her deductive observations, Kara matched Aimee’s movements around the room. No one seemed to engage with the widow, or acknowledge her except for the occasional critical glances. Finally, when Kara was about to go talk with Aimee, just out of pity, two finely-dressed redheaded gentlemen greeted the widow. Except for their hair color, the two couldn’t have been more different. The first, Kara recognized from the photos of suspects Booker had shown them in class. It was Daniel O’Connell. A man who was slim and clean-shaven, he had what Kara thought of as an “elvish” quality to him. This impression was reinforced as Daniel gracefully took Aimee’s hand.

  “Ms. Glazer! We are so sorry for the loss of your husband.” Daniel patted her hand with his.

  “He will be missed.” The large man next to him, who Kara was also recognized as Daniel’s brother Shamus, interjected. He was a mountain of muscle and spoke lowly and rough through his well-trimmed beard. Both of the men seemed to attract the attention of most of the people in earshot. Kara used the heeding crowd as cover to get a bit closer.