Resolve (17 page)

“You said that I was one of the good ones. Does that mean she found some
bad
ones?”

Again, a nod.

She followed with, “A bunch. She was trying to get professors from different departments. But she said that you wouldn’t budge. She told me that she was giving you the full-court press and all you did was get uncomfortable. I think she really respected you.”

“Did you know why she came to my office on the day she was killed?”

The tears were drying up now. Her breathing was less shallow.

“She said she was finishing up the story and wanted a recording of a professor actually stating what the student-faculty relationship policy was. She wanted you to say it, because you were one of the few who turned her away. It was her idea of being fair and demonstrating that not all professors were jerks. The whole thing was supposed to be about exposing hypocrisy in higher education, or some crap like that. She couldn’t ask any of the profs who actually took her up on her . . . her suggestions. They would have gotten suspicious and thought she was up to something. She just wanted some audio from you so she could show that faculty members did know that relationships with students were off-limits.”

She recorded the whole thing.

I asked, “Why didn’t you just tell the police all this? It could have been important.”

“You really didn’t know her well, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, her dad is a big time Methodist minister around her hometown. Her mom runs a school for kids with special needs. Do you think I want them to know that Lindsay was throwing herself at male professors at the school? If she broke her so-called story and made it big, then so be it. She could tell her parents that it was for the greater good and declare her moral superiority. At least when they found out what she had been doing, it would be on her own terms. But not like this. Not a headline in the
Post-Gazette
that paints her as some temptress who may have deserved what she got. No way.”

She was right. That’s exactly how the press would have portrayed it. The headline would be too juicy to pass up:
SEDUCING
STUDENT
FALLS
VICTIM
TO
OWN
GAME
.

“And the older boyfriend? Was that part of her plan?”

V stood up and walked over to the stand that held photos of the girls and their families.

She answered, “No. That was something different. She tried to work her magic on him, but somehow he read into it. Lindsay told me that he completely turned the tables on her and she felt guilty for trying to reel him in. She ended up telling him what she was doing and he actually supported her. He told her that the university system needed a good purging and that she was doing society a favor. It wasn’t long until they were involved. Can you believe that bullshit? I told her that she was being played, but she wouldn’t listen. And since I was so adamant about her breaking it off with him, she never did tell me who it was.”

She sat down on the beanbag chair and it molded itself around her tiny body. The tear factory started churning out products again.

“I should have tried harder. I told her that the project was going to get her in trouble. I told her that the guy was playing her. And then this psycho goes and kills her. He knew what she was up to, so why would he get mad at her? Why would this Steven guy promise to give her a future filled with romantic nights on the water and foreign vacations, and then kill her?”

I was standing by a window and looking out onto a quad filled with students.

“I don’t think he did.”

The speck in the middle of the bag stared at me in wonder. I realized I better quickly clarify what I said.

“He killed her. I don’t doubt that. But he wasn’t dating her.”

“He wasn’t?” was all she managed to squeak out.

“No. She must have been seeing another man. Like you said, an older man. Steven was a lot of things, but he was certainly not a charmer. I don’t see how he could have turned her around like that and ended up in a relationship with her. He didn’t have the charisma. And besides,” I sorted through some appropriate words and chose some, “I don’t think she was his . . . type.”

The beanbag rustled. V asked, “Then why did he kill her?”

“I don’t know.”

I lost several seconds as I watched a young man set up an easel on the grass outside and begin painting something. He had probably just come from the art supply store where I parked my car earlier.

“Where are her notes and recordings, V?”

She didn’t answer.

“I need to know. There might be something there that explains why she died.”

The only sound was the fading chatter of students exiting another apartment. She wasn’t denying that she knew where they were. There would have been an instantaneous denial if that were the case.

“Are you going to trash them?”

“I need to review her notes and listen to the recordings. I just want to know why this happened. Two people are dead and I’m not real comfortable with that. Are you?”

“After you see the stuff, then are you going to trash it?”

“Do you want me to?”

She looked over at the photos again. Then back to me.

“I don’t know. I didn’t agree with what she was doing, but it was important to her. I just don’t know.”

I thought about how damaging the information could be. Lives could be ruined. Marriages torn apart. If Lindsay was targeting full-time professors, not grad students, then careers could be ended. The scandal could destroy reputations regardless of whether sex was involved. Part of me felt sorry for the men who fell into her trap. On the other hand, those guys made their own beds and they wanted to hop into those beds with a girl who was probably young enough to be their daughter. I made a decision.

“How about this? I’ll go over the information and then give it back to you in a few days. Then you can decide what to do with it. If you want, you can explain things to Lindsay’s parents, and then send the info to the other girls working on the project. Or, if you prefer, you can burn everything. Your call.”

She immediately liked this idea. The beanbag spit her out and she walked over to the mantle where the ashtray was. There were candles on either end of the mantle and next to the candle on the left was a small figure, standing in a pose. V pulled it down and tossed it to me. I examined the tiny replica of a recent U.S. President. V noticed my confusion and rolled her eyes at me. Walking over to me and taking it from my palm, she pulled the figure apart. It was a USB flash drive. Lindsay had saved all of the information in the storage device and all that was needed to access it was a computer. V handed it back to me.

She told me, “The police came here and searched the place after they found Lindsay’s body. I guess they thought this was just a decoration.”

“It’s easy to miss,” I remarked. Then, rejoining the halves of the politician back together, I faced the implement in V’s direction and looked at her questioningly.

Explaining the odd coupling of the device with the likeness, V said, “Lindsay said it was appropriate. Both were divisive and full of all kinds of crap.”

We both smiled and I put Mr. President into my coat pocket.

“You said the guy she was seeing knew about the project, even encouraged it. Did he know about the recordings?”

“No. She told me that I was the only one who knew. She said if word got out that she was wired, her work would never get out there.” She gestured toward a wall that represented
out there
. We must have read the same geography textbook.

“In this state, you can’t record people without their consent,” V continued. “She was afraid she would get charged and everything on the flash drive would be taken as evidence.”

Another question crept into my mind.

I asked her if she had looked at the information on the flash drive. She told me she hadn’t. She had never wanted anything to do with Lindsay’s plan.

Returning to what V had said earlier, I asked, “What did you mean earlier when you said that Steven, or whoever the boyfriend was, promised her romantic nights on the water?”

She rewound the conversation in her mind and remembered. “Lindsay said that when it got warmer out, they were going to go out on his boat. She said he had just bought a new one.”

How nice.

I knew a business professor who had done the same exact thing.

Mile 12

T
he nightclubs become intermingled with more upscale retail stores further down East Carson Street. The runners are completely spread out now. No more accidental bumping of elbows followed by breathless apologies. This makes it easier to navigate the streets, but harder to blend in. If I get too close, he’ll see me coming. He may not have any suspicions as to my intent, but I can’t take that chance. I need to stay out of sight, tucked away behind him, until the very moment of his death. I knew my vision would be limited here by the morning sun, so I pull down the sunglasses I’ve had propped up on the top of my head. They have small vents at the tops of the lenses to prevent them from fogging up. I have to see clearly.

A man in an old white T-shirt and black pants hoses down a sidewalk in front of a jazz club. He waves at a pair of runners in front of me, a couple wearing shirts that read,
FOR
LINDA
on the back. A tribute to a lost friend or family member. They don’t look like brother and sister. More likely a married couple who are running in remembrance of a mother, or sister. We do things that remind us of our own mortality in order to remember the dead.

The hard left onto the Birmingham Bridge is when I feel the first signs of fatigue. Even at this slower pace, eleven miles is more than just a leisurely stroll. My legs feel solid, but of all things, my shoulder is starting to hurt. Despite it being a long way from my feet, the repeated pounding on the pavement still vibrates through my bruised bones. It’s like Chinese water torture. Each step is a drip on my shoulder. After 20,000 steps or so, the drips become hard jabs. By the end of the race it will feel like Steven is still behind me, whaling away with that tire iron.

K
aitlyn returned from a morning meeting with a patient and was working in her den. She and Sigmund heard me come in and they both came out of her hideaway. She was still in business attire and cradling a half-filled mug of tea with both hands. Noticing that my hands weren’t holding any bags filled with carpet tape and drill bits, she asked me where I had been. I weighed the value of telling her about what I’d been doing and what I had learned against keeping her in the dark. Usually, I shared everything with her, but I really wasn’t sure what I had yet. She was still shaken up about the attack; and while the cuts and bruises on my face were healing, they were still visible reminders of how close I had come to buying the farm. If I told her I was out there interviewing Lindsay’s roommate and uncovering information that might be related to the murder, her fury would be something to behold. Our full disclosure rule would be put on hold. Later on she would surely understand that my secrecy was for her benefit. Right?

Not that I’m scared of her. I’m the man of the house. I just didn’t see any need to concern her. I can do whatever I want. Really. I can get her permission anytime I want.

“I needed to go for a drive. Cabin fever,” I lied.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you noticed any problems with the Wrangler?” she asked.

“Other than the engine convulsing, the bad windshield wiper, the rusted bumper, the possible oil leak, and the ripped seat cushion in the back? Nope, not a thing.”

She ignored my sarcasm.

“When I drove it back from the university, it felt like it was shaking when it got over eighty. You never noticed that?”

She was completely serious. I had pleaded with her for years about her lead foot.

“I hadn’t noticed. Of course, I don’t try to drive it fast enough to go back in time.”

She grinned, rolled her eyes, and headed toward the kitchen to warm up her tea.

Turning her head back over her shoulder, she suggested, “Well, you should get it checked out. The alignment may be off.”

I didn’t respond. I knew the car was on its last legs. I was just hoping it would make it through the summer, but that was looking less and less likely.

I raised my voice so she could hear me in the kitchen and said, “I’m going to be working at my computer for a while. I’ve got some ideas for research studies I need to sort through.”

“Alright. Have fun.”

My home office was really nothing more than a desk, a computer, and a couple of crammed bookshelves. Sigmund decided that the sunbeam coming through my window was more inviting than Kaitlyn’s windowless lair, so he curled up in it and started snoring immediately. I closed the door and pulled the flash drive from my pocket. Pushing the mouse on my desk, I woke the computer up and pulled Mr. President apart. Plugging his feet into a USB port, I clicked on a couple of icons to see what I had.

The files were separated into two main folders—audio files and text files. I clicked on the folder with the audio files. Subfolders appeared on the monitor, each of them labeled with different names. Rippoli, Parisi, Pasquinelli, Bandi, Wolfe, Jaworski, Caferty, Kelly, Kasko, Wainwright, Norris, Walker, Robbins, Baird, Harper, Smith, Maynard, Chrusciel, Hamluck, Cassidy, DeJohn, Esposito . . . Keller. I knew all the names. All were my colleagues, and most had families. Individual conversations were organized by dates. How many had she been successful with?