Just Cause (57 page)

'And attendance?'

'Always take attendance.'

'And the days in question?'

'Class met twice that week. Only twenty-seven students. Can't hide, you know. Can't send your roommate in to pick up the assignments. Tuesdays and Thursdays.'

'And?'

'Right here. In my notebook.'

The professor ran thin fingers down a column of names. 'Ahh. Perfect.'

'He was there?'

'Never missed a class. Not this month. A few other absences, earlier in the year. But I showed those as excused absences.'

'Excused?'

'Means he came to me with a good reason. Got the assignments himself. Did the makeup work. That sort of thing. That's dedication, especially in these days.'

The professor snapped his notebook shut and returned to his plate of greens and dried fruit.

Shaeffer found the second professor outside a lecture hall in a corridor swamped with students hurrying to classes. This man taught the history of crime in America, a large survey course designed to accommodate a hundred students. He carried a briefcase and an armful of books and couldn't remember whether Ferguson was present on specific dates, but he did show the detective a sign-in sheet, where Ferguson's signature appeared prominently.

It was creaking toward afternoon, a gray, rancid light filling the hallways of the university, and Shaeffer felt angry and disappointed. She had not held much hope that she would discover his absence from the university at the time of the murders; still, she was frustrated by the sense that she was wasting time. She thought she knew little more about the man than she had when she'd started out in the morning. Surrounded by the constant press of students, even Ferguson had begun to diminish in her mind. She started asking herself, What the hell am I doing?

She decided to head back to her motel, then, at the last moment, changed her mind again and decided to knock on the door of the third professor. If there was no answer, she told herself, she'd go straight back to Florida.

She found his cubicle after several wrong turns and rapped sharply on the door, then stepped back as it swung open to reveal a stocky man, wearing 1960s-style granny glasses beneath an uncombed mop of straggly sand-colored hair. The professor wore a loose-fitting tweed sportcoat with a dozen pens stuck in the breast pocket, one of which seemed to have leaked. His tie was loose around his collar and a substantial paunch tugged at the belt of his corduroy trousers. He had the appearance of someone awakened from a nap taken in his clothes, but his eyes moved swiftly to take in the detective standing in front of him.

'Professor Morin?'

'Are you a student?'

She produced her badge, which he inspected. 'Florida, huh?'

'Can I ask you a few questions?'

'Sure.' He gestured for her to enter his office. 'I was expecting you.'

'Expecting?'

'You want to know about Mr. Ferguson, right?'

'That's correct,' she said as she stepped into the cubicle. It was a small space, with a single dirty window that overlooked a quadrangle. One wall was devoted to books. A small desk and computer were tightly jammed against the other wall. There were copies of newspapers taped to the few remaining empty spots. There were also three bright watercolors of flowers hung about, contradicting the grimy appearance of the office. 'How did you know?'

'He called me. Said you'd be checking on him.'

'And?'

'Well,' the professor said, speaking with the bubbly enthusiasm of someone who has been shut in too long, 'Mr. Ferguson has a fine attendance record. Just perfect. Especially for the time period he said you were interested in,'

He sat down hard in a desk chair that bounced with his weight. 'I hope that clears up any misunderstandings you might have.' The professor smiled, displaying perfectly white, even teeth, which seemed to contradict his disheveled appearance.

'He's quite a good student, you see. Quite intense, you know, which puts people off. Very much a loner, but I guess Death Row has something to do with that. Yes, intense, dedicated, wound tight. Don't see that in too many students. A little scary, but ultimately refreshing. Like danger, I suppose.'

Professor Morin burbled on. 'Even the policemen and women we get in here trying to advance their careers, they just see this as part of a process of collecting credits and getting ahead. Mr. Ferguson is more of a scholar.'

There was a single hardbacked chair in a corner, scarred and worn with hard use, which she slid into. It was obviously designed to keep visiting students and their concerns totally uncomfortable, and thereby in the office as briefly as possible.

'You know Mr. Ferguson well?' she asked.

The professor shrugged. 'As well as any. Actually, yes. He's an interesting man.'

'How so?'

'Well, I teach "Media and Crime," and he has a good deal of natural expertise in that area.'

'And so?'

'Well, he's been called upon on numerous occasions to give his opinions. They are always, how shall I say it? Intriguing. I mean, it's not every day that you teach a course to someone who has firsthand experience in the field. And who might have gone to the electric chair had it not been for the media.'

'Cowart.'

'That's correct. Matthew Cowart of the Miami Journal. A Pulitzer Prize and well deserved, I might add. Quite a job of reporting and writing.'

'And what are Ferguson's opinions, Professor?'

'Well, I would say he is extremely sensitive to issues of race and reporting. He wrote a paper examining the case of Wayne Williams in Atlanta. He raised the issue of the double standard, you know, one set of rules reporting on crime in the white community and another for reporting on crimes in the black community. It's a distinction I happen to subscribe to as well, Detective.'

She nodded.

Professor Morin swiveled in his desk chair, ebbing back and forth as he spoke, clearly enamored of his own voice.

'… Yes, he made the point that the lack of media attention in black community crimes invariably leads to a diminishment of resources for the police, lessening of activity by the prosecutorial bodies and makes crime seem a commonplace fabric of the society. Not unsophisticated, this view. The routinization of crime, I suppose. Helps explain why fairly a quarter of the young black male population in this nation is or has been behind bars.'

'And he was in class?'

'Except when he had an excuse.'

'What sort of excuses?'

'He gives occasional lectures and speeches, often to church groups down in Florida. Up here, of course, no one really has any idea of his past. Half the students in the class hadn't even heard of his case at the beginning of the semester. Can you believe that, Detective? What a commentary on the quality of students today.'

'He goes back to Florida?'

'On occasion.'

'You happen to have those dates?'

'Yes. But I thought he told me you were only interested in the week that…'

'No, I'm interested in the other times as well.'

Professor Morin hesitated, then shrugged. 'I don't suppose it will hurt anything.' He turned to a notebook, flipped rapidly through some pages and finally came to an attendance sheet. He handed this over to her, and she quickly copied down the dates Ferguson had been absent from class.

'Is that all, Detective?'

'I think so.'

'See. It's all quite routine and ordinary. I mean, he blends in here. Has a future as well, I suspect. Certainly has the capability of getting his degree.'

'Blends in?'

'Of course. We're a large, urban university, Detective. He fits in.'

'Anonymous.'

'Like any student.'

'Do you know where he lives, Professor?'

'No.'

'Anything else about him?'

'No.'

'And he doesn't make your skin shrivel a bit when you speak with him?'

'He has an intensity, like I said – but I don't see how that should make him into a suspect for a homicide. I suppose he wonders whether he'll ever be free from the interest of the police in Florida. And I think that's a legitimate question, Detective, don't you?'

'An innocent man has nothing to fear,' she answered.

'No,' the professor shook his head. 'I think in our society it's often the guilty who are safe.'

She looked over at the professor, who was gathering himself as if to launch into some quasi-radical, leftover sixties tirade. She decided to decline this particular lecture.

She stood and left the room. She wasn't sure what she'd heard, but she'd heard something. Anonymous. She walked partway down the corridor until struck with the thought she was being watched. She turned suddenly and saw the professor closing the door to his office. The sound reverberated in the hallway. Her eyes swept about, searching for the students who'd flooded the area earlier, and who now seemed to have been absorbed by the offices, classrooms, and lecture halls.

Alone.

She forced a shrug onto her shoulders. It's daytime, she told herself. This is a crowded, public place. She started walking rapidly. She could hear her shoes making a slapping sound against the polished linoleum of the floor, which echoed slightly about her ears. She began to hurry, picking up her pace, increasing the solitary sound around her. She found a stairwell and pushed ahead, moving quickly. The stairwell was empty as well. She took the stairs swiftly, almost jumping down the half-flights. She stopped abruptly when she heard a doorway behind her open and close and realized, suddenly, that someone else's footsteps were moving fast on the stairs behind her. She stopped, shoving herself against the wall, reaching into her pocketbook for her weapon as the sound increased and approached. She squeezed herself tight into a corner, feeling the reassuring grip of her pistol beneath her fingers. She looked up and saw the eyes of a young student, loaded with notebooks and texts, untied basketball shoes flapping in his hurry. The student barely looked at her as he swept past, obviously late and hurrying. She closed her eyes. What's happening to me? she asked herself. She released her grip on the pistol. What did I hear? She headed through the stairwell exit, spying the doors to the building in front of her. The late afternoon sky beyond the glass entranceway seemed gray and funereal but beckoning.

She pushed herself quickly toward it.

She did not see Ferguson, only heard him.

'Learn what you wanted, Detective?'

The hiss of his question made her jump.

She pivoted toward the sound, jerking her hand into her pocketbook, stepping back, almost as if struck with a blow. Her eyes locked onto Ferguson's, and she saw the same, unsettling grin crease his face.

'Satisfied?' he asked.

She squared her shoulders toward him.

'Did I frighten you, Detective?'

She shook her head, still unable to respond. She could feel her hand around the pistol grip, but she did not remove it from the bag.

'Are you going to shoot me, Detective?' he asked harshly. 'Is that what you're looking for?'

Ferguson stepped forward, out of the shadowed spot against the wall that had concealed him. He wore an olive-drab army surplus jacket and had a New York Giants cap on his head. A satchel, which she presumed was filled with books, was slung over his shoulder. He looked like almost every other student that she'd seen in that corridor that day. She controlled her racing heart and slowly removed her hand from the pocketbook.

'What do you carry, Detective? A thirty-eight, police issue? Maybe a twenty-five-caliber auto? Something small but efficient?'

He stared at her. 'No, I bet something larger. Got to prove something to the world. A three-fifty-seven with a magnum load. Or a nine-millimeter. Something that helps you think you're tough, right, Detective? Strong and in charge.'

She did not reply.

He laughed. 'Won't share that information, huh?'

Ferguson unslung his book bag, setting it on the floor. Then he spread his arms in mock surrender, almost supplication, palms out. 'But you see, I'm unarmed, aren't I? So what have you got to fear?'

She breathed in and out sharply, trying to clear the surprise of seeing him from her head, so that she could come up with some appropriate response of her own.

'So, did you find out what you wanted, Detective?'

She exhaled slowly. I found out some things, yes.'

'Discovered I was in class?'

That's right.'

'So, there wasn't any way I could be down in Florida and do that old couple, right? You figured that out yet?'

'It doesn't seem so. I'm still checking.'

'Got the wrong guy, Detective.' Ferguson grinned. "You Florida cops always seem to get the wrong guy.'

She met his eyes coldly. 'No, I don't know that, Mr. Ferguson. I think you're the right guy. But I just haven't figured out what for yet.'

Ferguson's eyes flashed toward her. 'You're all alone, aren't you, Detective?'

'No,' she lied. I have a partner.'

'Where is he?'

'Working.'

Ferguson stepped past her, glancing out the double glass doors toward the walkways and parking lots. Rain streaked the air, tumbling down with a depressing ferocity,

'Gal got beaten and raped right out there the other evening. Little late coming out of class. Just after night fell. Some guy just grabbed her, dragged her down behind that little lip at the edge of the parking lot. Did her right there. Knocked her out and did her. Didn't kill her, though. Broke her jaw. Broke her arm. Took his pleasure.'

Ferguson continued to look through the doors. He raised his arm and pointed. 'Right out there. That where you're parked, Detective?'

She clamped her mouth shut.

He turned toward her. 'They got no suspects yet. Gal's still in the hospital. Ain't that something, Detective? Just think about it. You can't even be safe walking across a campus. Finding your car. Not even in a motel room, neither, I guess. Doesn't that make you a bit nervous? Even with that big old gun stuck down there in that pocketbook where you can't reach it in near enough time.'