Resolve (21 page)

I decided I would give the flash drive back to V, persuade her to talk to Lindsay’s parents to explain what their daughter had been doing, and then give the information to the police. Once they analyzed the information, they could run down the leads.

It was time for me to take a bow, exit stage left and get back to my normal life. I considered making a copy of the files on the flash drive, but I didn’t for a few reasons. First, I didn’t see any real benefit. I knew the information and hopefully the police would too soon enough. Second, Steven had been the man who murdered Lindsay and none of this changed that fact. The rest of this was scandalous and sad, but circumstantial and mostly unrelated. Third, I was afraid that I would be tempted someday to use the information for my own benefit. I couldn’t imagine myself doing that, but why take the chance.

Before heading out to return the flash drive, I needed to tell Kaitlyn what I had been doing and let her know that it was over. Full disclosure could only be delayed for so long. I knew she wouldn’t be particularly happy about my going off and playing detective, but the woman had advanced training in conflict resolution and crisis management, so I was sure she would handle it like a champ.

“You’re a damn idiot!”

Well, she didn’t handle it quite that well.

“I know.”

Sigmund had followed me to her den, but made a hasty retreat.
Coward.

“Who told you that the girl had an agenda?”

“You did.”

“And then you went and actually interviewed her roommate?”

“I talked to her. Just a conversation. I wouldn’t call it an interview, per se.”

In the way a parent scolds a four-year-old, she asked, “Oh, well then, let me ask you this about your
conversation,
Dr. Keller. Did you lean in when the questions got tougher? Did you change the inflection of your voice when addressing certain topics? Did you monitor her body language and look for signs of deception? Did you perhaps, catch her in a lie, hold it back, and then throw it in her face? Did she happen to be crying when she gave everything up?”

Where the hell was Sigmund? I needed backup. He needed to come back in here and do the cute head-tilt thingy.

“I may have interviewed her.”

“No kidding. I’m shocked!”

She wasn’t.

“I’m furious at you.”

She was.

“What if the cops find out that you were spending your days on suspension running down leads and interviewing people?”

“I’ll say I’m with the neighborhood watch?”

“Oakland is not your damn neighborhood!”

After some more advanced conflict resolution, Kaitlyn descended to a safe altitude and the conversation became much more productive.

“Do you think you can get the roommate to talk to the police?”

“I think so. V is pretty worried about Lindsay’s reputation, but I’ll explain the importance of it.” I thought about the potential fallout again. “A lot of people may get hurt by this, depending on whether the police release the information.”

“V? The roommate’s name is V?”

“Her real name is Virginia Richmond.”

“What’s wrong with some parents? They can try to be too clever.”

“I agree.”

I got back on the road and headed back into the city to return the memory stick and convince V to turn it over to the police. On the way, my cell phone rang. Brent Lancaster was calling to let me know that he wanted me to come down to TRU the day after next, and give my official statement regarding my outburst. He had been appointed by the panel to get a short summary of what happened and a promise from me to be on my best behavior in the future. He assured me it was just a formality and he would simply take my statement, write it up, and submit it to the Criminology department panel members.

A smile crossed my face when he said it was likely that I would be reinstated by the end of the week. He let me know where he would be teaching class that morning and asked if I could meet him there at nine forty-five. He said the class should be finishing up at that time and he could get my statement right there. I agreed, and felt a sense of relief. All of this was wrapping up.

After arriving at V’s apartment, my conversation with her went even better than I expected. As promised, I returned the flash drive and assured her that it was her choice about what to do with the information. Some rags in her hand told me that she had been cleaning. Quite a neat little doper. I never knew wacky weed could make you OCD.

While trying to ignore the odors of lemon cleaner and burnt marijuana in the air, I told her, “Some of these files will really hurt some people, but any evidence of misconduct should probably go to the police. In fact, I think you should turn the entire thing over to them. There’s some interesting stuff on there.”

I knew the police wouldn’t concern themselves with all the dirty little details of the professors’ lives, but they would certainly be interested in Silo’s financial dealings and possibly Jacob’s relationship with Lindsay. Even though most of the incriminating information on the stick wasn’t criminal in nature, I could see the cops turning over the information to the university or letting it get leaked to the press.

V told me she would think about things for a few days, but I got the impression she was leaning toward giving everything to the cops. I was about to mention that there was no real reason to bring my name into the conversation, but she beat me to the punch and said that she had never seen me before.

I thanked her, we shook hands, and I was on my way. En route to the Jeep, I passed through the quad outside of the building and noticed the same guy with the easel and paints set up facing away from the apartments. He looked to be working furiously to beat the setting sun and the accompanying colder temperatures. As I passed behind him, my eyes traced a path over his work and I could see what he was painting. Less than a quarter of a mile away, the Cathedral of Learning projected itself into the dimming sky, while a miniature version of the same tower stood twelve inches from the artist’s face. I told myself that I would have to remember to use that building as a landmark in a few weeks.

Mile 16

V
ictorian houses and one hundred-year-old trees change into brick apartment buildings when we turn onto Highland Avenue. These apartments are much different than those around the colleges. These look to be more upscale. Maybe some students can afford these, but they are more likely filled by recent graduates who hop on a bus to exciting new jobs downtown or over in Squirrel Hill. Some of them probably ride bikes to nearby companies in Shadyside when the weather is nice.

Eventually, I’ll have to get a bike. Cycling is supposed to be easier on your joints. If my knees start failing me after a few thousand miles, I’ll be one of those guys you see in the fancy shirts that zip up in the front. They wear spandex shorts and fly down narrow roads, just daring a truck to pancake them. The thrill of the speed must be irresistible. I can see myself weaving in and out of other cyclists as the road flies by beneath me. Or, I’ll learn to play golf.

It’s probably similar.

I once read that Lance Armstrong had a resting heart rate of something like thirty-five beats per minute whereas a normal person’s is seventy or seventy-five. I measured mine once and I was thrilled when I calculated it to be fifty-eight. A low heart rate means less strain on the body. You take fewer breaths, expend less energy, and you operate more efficiently.

To run efficiently you have to maintain proper form by not leaning over too far, but not leaning too far back. You keep your stride length comfortable, run heel to toe, swing your arms, and let inertia help you along. A body in motion tends to stay in motion. That’s the rule. There are always going to be times when you find yourself being brought to a violent halt. You just have to get started again, even after you bounce off a wall or two.

T
hat night, I slept better than I had since the day I’d found out about the murder. My shoulder seemed to feel better, Kaitlyn was relaxed, and even Sigmund snored a touch louder. The best thing about carrying around a burden is the feeling you have when it gets unloaded.

Yes, a student of mine was dead. Yes, my graduate assistant had been the murdering wacko who killed her. Yes, my running group had been a collection of morally corrupt and mentally unstable hypocrites. Yes, the Dean of Academic Affairs was an embezzler. But hey . . . welcome to Three Rivers University. Let me show you some brochures.

I woke up the next morning refreshed and ready to tackle the day. Of course, I still had nothing to tackle and I think the Home Depot had me listed as a stalker, so I went for a run. It was cool and overcast with temperatures in the high forties. An hour into my run a light drizzle floated in and the tiny dabs of water felt great on my skin. I cranked out fifteen miles and felt good while doing it. There were just four weeks until the race and, other than my shoulder, I was doing fine. I told myself that I would work my way up to running twenty miles, and then taper off the final two weeks so my legs would be ready for action. Confidence: regained.

Kaitlyn had gotten up before dawn and had gone to Philadelphia for a three-day conference and to visit a college friend through the weekend, so Sigmund and I had the place to ourselves for a few days. When I returned from my run, Sigmund greeted me like I had been gone for a week. That’s one of the great things about dogs. Whether it’s five minutes or five weeks, they are always happy to see you when you come home.

After a long stretching session, I got in the shower and planned the rest of my day. I decided that I would have one last lazy day before rededicating myself to work. I was going to meet with Brent the next morning. Being reinstated was a foregone conclusion after he submitted my statement. This day was going to be completely about watching some movies I had on DVD, but never had time to watch, and finishing that book about the Unabomber. No stress.

Determined to take this mini-rebellion all the way, I threw on some sweat pants and a fleece shirt after getting out of the shower. I was going to stay in total bum-gear all day long and nobody could do a thing about it. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. Walking to the stack of unwatched DVDs next to the TV, I picked out a feel-good movie about some kid who went from poverty to making millions in pro football. I was about to change the TV from its normal setting to the DVD mode, when the local news interrupted some game show with a breaking story. I heard only the first few bits and pieces as I struggled to unwrap the plastic that was keeping me from opening the case that contained my movie.

Tragedy . . . Oakland . . . students shocked . . . dead . . . KDKA Newsforce on the scene . . . getting reaction of owner . . . nearby business . . . Ernie’s Art Supplies . . .

I dropped the movie and grabbed the remote. I turned up the volume and hoped for a recap. The desk reporter didn’t disappoint me. She pasted on a look as if her own child was in danger and used her best dramatic voice. She described how the details were sketchy, but a young female had been found dead in the early morning hours. The police were not releasing any further information, but students who lived in the building said the occupant of apartment 301 was a sweet girl who never bothered anybody.

A neighbor who knew her had noticed her door standing open around six in the morning and decided to check up on her. She said there was no way that the victim would have left the door open since her roommate had been murdered just a couple of weeks before. The neighbor found the body next to a blood covered fireplace poker.

The neighbor, a girl who looked to be about eighteen years old, said she was in total shock because she had never seen so much blood. She described all sorts of bruises on the face and neck. She hadn’t heard anything during the night, but some guys had a loud party in 307. They always threw parties that were
off the hook
. She said they were great guys. She mentioned again that she was totally in shock. Of course, that didn’t stop her from excitedly describing the scene while looking into the camera.

The press was salivating over the story’s potential. Two roommates murdered. Was there a connection? Did the police miss something? Was this a terrible coincidence? The Newsforce team would be following the story all day. They promised.

The police weren’t releasing the name of the victim, pending notification of the family. To my amazement, the news crew refused to release the name as well. Probably out of fear of getting shutout by the police. They wouldn’t say the name, but I knew the name.

The police
had
missed something. They had missed what I had held in my hand yesterday afternoon. They had missed what I had failed to give them. Somebody knew what V had and they decided to kill her for it. I had to assume the flash drive was gone. The bruises on her face told that story. V had some fight in her, but she was basically a kid. If somebody decided to beat the information out of her with a fireplace poker, they got what they wanted.

I turned off the television and looked out a window into the woods. The light drizzle had turned into a steady rain. I gripped the window frame and closed my eyes. My head pounded.