Resolve (20 page)

But Lindsay had some information that the people in California didn’t have at the time. In a totally unrelated set of documents in the file, information about relatives and their business ties sat innocuously in neat paragraphs. I studied it carefully.

The accused man’s sister owned a struggling transportation service in Arizona which owned a handful of buses catering to groups of senior citizens who wanted to visit the Grand Canyon or Las Vegas. Around the same time the money disappeared from the university, the transportation company bought out a competitor, purchased some new buses, and underwent a major expansion. The company became very profitable and all of its partners began to collect some nice annual profits. In fact, over the next few years several people involved with the company became very wealthy. A fortuitous turn of events, indeed.

Of course, the data-mining company hadn’t connected the dots. To them it was just a compilation of random facts and it was their job to simply supply the information, not interpret it. Lindsay did the rest. She saw the names, numbers, and dates, recognized exactly what happened, and wrote a summary linking everything together. She also noted that the defrauded university was a public institution which utilized state money. She had copied a portion of a state law that informed the reader that in California there was no statute of limitations when embezzlement involved public funds. The case could still be prosecuted.

I scrolled back through the documents until I found a list of the transportation company’s partners. I had missed it the first time in the cascade of data. The fourth name on the list was the same one that was on all the other documents. The initials D.A.A. on the folder’s icon weren’t the initials of somebody’s name. The initials stood for a title. It was a title I was very familiar with. I wondered how long the Dean of Academic Affairs would keep me waiting in the lobby the next time I paid him a visit.

Mile 14

I
always pin my bib number onto the leg of my shorts before races. Most people pin it on the front of their shirts, but I prefer not to in case I want to lift my shirt up and wipe the sweat from my face. I broke tradition today and centered the number on my chest. I’m number 1863. I just happened to get that number assigned to me when I registered. Any single or double-digit bib numbers are reserved for the elites.

As we move through the campuses of Pitt and Carnegie Mellon, fatigue is intruding on my mind and my legs. I occupy my mind by trying to find some significance in the number 1863.

Civil War era.

Battle of Gettysburg.

Little Round Top.

Joshua Chamberlain leads a heroic bayonet charge.

Probably won the entire war in that moment.

He was around my age then.

He was a professor. Rhetoric, I think.

What else?

Vicksburg. Grant.

He would have been a good runner.

Wait your opponent out if you must—plow through and destroy when the opportunity is there.

He liked cigars. Maybe not a runner.

Probably not.

Museums and classroom buildings stand in the shadow of the tower. Lots of fast food and music stores here. Dozens of shops for students advertise candles and Bob Marley tapestries. Barricades and police cars are at every intersection. Even on Sunday morning, there can be a lot of traffic on 5th Avenue. There’s always something going on. I see some well-dressed people walking to one of the local churches. Pittsburgh has a lot of churches. Maybe I should start going. I would have to be a Unitarian Universalist. They don’t discriminate.

I wonder what he’s thinking right now. Is he thinking about churches? About the Civil War? Is he thinking he got away with it? Did he think I wouldn’t figure it out, or if I did, that I would just let it go? Three of them are up there somewhere, but only one has to die.

A
fter I had gone through the entire contents of the thumb drive, I sat there in my office and tried to figure out my next move. I knew I should have taken what I had to Shand and Hartz, but that course of action came with its own set of problems. First, I still didn’t know if this had anything to do with Lindsay’s death. Steven’s name was nowhere in the files and, as far as I could tell, he didn’t have any connection to the people who could be harmed by the information. Second, these were career academics, and the minute a cop showed up knocking on the door, they would be on the phone with their lawyers. Third, I made a promise. My promise to V was that I would let her make the call. Promises should be kept.

No. No cops. Not yet.

Lindsay had plans to use this information to make a name for herself, and I didn’t want to doubt that fact. Unfortunately, I had to account for another possibility. She could have been blackmailing any of a number of people. She could have tried it on the wrong person. But she wasn’t blackmailing the man who killed her. Steven’s name wasn’t in the files.

I concluded that if I kept taking the facts at face value and didn’t start thinking outside the box, I wasn’t going to get anywhere. I decided to let my intuition run wild and see where it took me. I just hoped I still had some good instincts.

I talked it out and Sigmund twitched an ear.

Lindsay was not dating Steven, but from the way they looked at each other in my office, it was clear they knew each other. Lindsay had recorded numerous embarrassing conversations with faculty members. Did she die because of a recording?

Stop.

Was an embarrassing conversation worth killing for? Probably not. Men can lie. They can make up excuses. They can claim that it wasn’t their voice. They can beg their wives for forgiveness and say they never would have actually gone through with it. They can seek redemption. And besides, nobody but Lindsay and V knew about the recordings.

Okay. Scratch that theory. Move on.

I decided that I was going to assume that Steven killing Lindsay wasn’t a coincidence. He didn’t kill her while she just happened to be discovering destructive information on university employees.

Would Steven kill for somebody else?

Sorry, Cyprus. Can’t take the chance.

Sorry?
You don’t say you’re sorry if you are mad enough to kill. But you might say it if you are killing
for
someone else.

Who would he kill for?

Cui bono
? Who benefits?

Several people.

Lindsay had found out that Aaron was off his rocker and had enraged him in the process. But did Aaron even know Steven?

Okay. Maybe. Hold onto that.

Next.

At a minimum, Silo could be facing a criminal investigation and possibly a prison sentence if his fraudulent dealings became known. Out of all the people in Lindsay’s files, he may have had the most to lose.

Stop. How would he have known that Lindsay had the information?

Throw that one out.

No. Wait. Not yet.

Jacob was seeing her. He’s the most prominent professor at the school. He values his reputation more than anything. His wife is gone. His name is all he’s got. He knew Lindsay the best. He seduced her. He promised her a future.

He didn’t have a link to Steven. Did he?

No, he didn’t. Steven didn’t seem to have a link to anybody. Who is Jacob linked to?

He’s linked to Aaron. To Randy. To me.

To Silo.

Lindsay could have confided in Jacob. She could have told him about Silo’s crime. Jacob could have told Silo. They’re friends.

Weak, but possible. Hold that one.

Lindsay knew that Randy was a plagiarist and a sexist jerk. She could have ruined his career and his life’s work.

Stop. Assume he didn’t know about the recording.

But, Randy teaches in the Criminology department. Steven studied Criminology. They could have crossed paths. Randy knew Lindsay and may have known Steven. Randy doesn’t like me, but would he go as far as sending Steven after me? If so, how would he benefit?

Hold on to that.

Look for connections
.

If Lindsay was hiding Jacob from V, then she had no reason to hide Steven from V.

Right?

So, Steven wasn’t a large part of Lindsay’s life, but they knew each other somehow.

Right?

They
were
connected in some way by
someone
who had something to lose.

Right.

If I was going to move ahead by operating on wild assumptions, then there was one big fact I was going to have to accept. Steven killed Lindsay because he thought he was protecting someone else. When he said,
Sorry, Cyprus. Can’t take the chance,
he meant he couldn’t risk that Lindsay
did
come back to talk to me later like she said she would. That she
did
tell me something. He wouldn’t have known that she wanted to get a recording of me stating a university rule in order to help some off-the-books journalism project.

He would have thought that either she was going to pursue a relationship with me . . . or . . .

Connection.

Or, he would have thought she was going to tell me about another relationship. One she was involved in.

The relationship with Jacob.

Steven
did
know Jacob.

Jacob knew Steven.

They both knew Lindsay.

It’s the only connection that makes sense.

There were three flimsy lines of reasoning to follow and one slightly more solid.

Randy could have known both Lindsay and Steven. But, did he know that she knew about his plagiarism? Doubtful.

Or

Silo discovered that Lindsay knew about his past crime and somehow used Steven. Again, a stretch.

Or

Aaron cracked, knew Steven and somehow got him to do his dirty work for him. Also requires massive speculation.

Or

Steven was protecting Jacob.

Logical.

Maybe.

All of this was conjecture and not particularly insightful. However, it needed to be investigated properly.

Now I knew what I had to do next.

Mile 15

T
he change of scenery gives me a boost. Transitioning from the realm of student housing and rat-race retail to the established businesses and residences in Shadyside gives me the feeling of permanence again. The walls of trees on each side of Walnut Street aren’t fully in bloom yet, but after the vacant lots and shells of transience I saw over the last two miles, I feel an unusually strong desire for stability. How could that have only been one mile from the heart of a bustling area full of young energy? The beautiful, well-kept houses here make this street look like the background in a Norman Rockwell painting. All that are missing are the flags and the 4
^th
of July parade.

Just one mile. That’s 5,280 feet. I estimate my stride length to be about two feet. So, that’s only 1,140 steps. In just 570 steps I’ll be halfway to the next mile. I inhale every three steps and exhale at the same rate. So, that’s twelve feet covered with each full breath. That equates to 440 breaths per mile, or 220 breaths per half mile. I could actually count 220 breaths in my head. Counting steps is too cumbersome, but I can count breaths. I’m wondering if I should start counting on the inhale or the exhale. When I get a drink of water at the upcoming water station, will that throw me off? Should I give myself a margin of error of plus or minus three? Maybe four.

I have to stay distracted to endure the race. I have to stay focused for other reasons.
Distractedly focused.
That will be my new power phrase.
Chasing the ideal
no longer works for me.
Distractedly focused
seems more applicable these days. Distract myself with numbers and facts, but be on target when the time is right. By the time I’ve done the math and figured out the feet, strides, and breaths, another mile has passed. One more tumbler falls into place.

T
ime to back off. I knew who had killed Lindsay and I had some crazy theories as to why. I didn’t have the whole picture yet, but I didn’t need to. I had gone above and beyond what I should have done, and I reminded myself that I wasn’t a cop anymore. My mind was made up.