The Demon Pool (16 page)

Saffi Stefansen’s body was in class. Her mind, however,
had drifted off to another place. Somewhere in the distance, the professor
droned on about crime scene integrity and evidence patterns. Normally, Saffi
didn’t let anything distract her from her studies, but Jim Demore was in this
class, and Jim Demore was the epitome of what Saffi used to describe to her
girlfriends as “the total package.” Tonight the total package had her totally
distracted.

Way back when her mother took her to the first day
of kindergarten, her mom explained that Saffi meant “wise,” so she should
listen wisely to everything the teacher taught her. Saffi had always listened
carefully to her mother; she also listened carefully to every word the
kindergarten teacher said, and to every teacher since. But she was not
listening tonight. She was not being wise. Not about Jim Demore anyway.

“Ms. Stefansen?”

Busted.

“I’m sorry, professor. I was daydreaming.”

Saffi may not have always been wise, but she was
always honest. It was a trait some people found unsettling.

“Well, it’s nice to have you back with us.”

The heat of embarrassment rose up from her neck.
She was glad she had taken the time to apply a little foundation while getting
ready for class. It would be the only thing keeping her from looking like a
well-cooked lobster.

Everyone in the class was looking at her. Almost
involuntarily, Saffi glanced over at Jim Demore who sat across from her at the
table they shared with two other students. He smiled at her and the heat in her
cheeks got a little hotter. Saffi forced her full attention back toward the
professor.
God, how embarrassing.

“Ms. Stefansen, give us the definition of pattern
evidence.”

Despite her embarrassment, without hesitation,
she spit out the definition.

“Pattern evidence is defined as any forensic
evidence that can be read and analyzed from a specific kind of pattern left by
the physical contact between different people, persons and objects, or
different objects.”

The professor looked impressed.

“Excellent. Can you give us some examples of
pattern evidence?”

“Blood splatters, burn marks near the origin of a
fire, broken glass, shoe prints, skid marks from vehicles.”

Saffi saw the other students taking notes. Her
face cooled.

The professor seemed satisfied.

“All right, let’s look at how forensic experts
examine pattern evidence to eliminate any natural or accidental causes from the
pattern.”

For the last forty minutes of the class, Saffi paid
attention, took notes, and acted very wisely.

***

Jim Demore smiled at the cute
blonde. He caught her eye briefly before she looked away, her attention
snapping back to the professor. He thought she was pretty. Cheerleader,
all-American girl pretty. Even with her shorter, contemporary, haircut.

The rest of the class remained reasonably
interesting. Jim had several pages of notes by the time the professor dismissed
the class. Gathering up his textbook, notes, and other miscellaneous crap
needed for a college class, he followed the other students out of the
classroom. He dodged his way out of the science building and headed across the
park setting of the campus, which was crowded with students.

The Southwest Florida Institute of Technology was
one of the state’s newest campuses. It had been the vision of the current
governor during his first term. He wanted Florida to lead the nation in
technology education. More than half of the students were working adults, and
the campus offered an extensive night program for which Jim was grateful.

As he walked, he felt the weight of fatigue from
the extra shifts, the hours spent investigating the death of Briggs, the
demands of school, and the battles with Linda. His knee ached, reminding him to
call his doctor.
Just one more damned thing to do.

When he reached the edge of the student parking
lot, he decided he needed coffee for the drive home. He turned around and cut
back toward the student union building. Students of all ages were entering and
leaving. Night classes didn’t end until ten thirty, and it was only a few
minutes after nine. He would grab some coffee and relax a little before heading
back.

By the time Jim reached the snack bar counter,
the line had shortened. He took his coffee and moved over to the condiment
stand, where he poured the contents of three artificial sweetener packets and a
splash of half-and-half into the cup. He put the lid on, and looked around for
a seat where he could let his knee rest for a few minutes. Three students from
his forensics class were still in the student union. One of those students,
Saffi Stefansen, sat at a table alone. Jim made his way to her table and stood
next to her. She tapped away on a laptop, oblivious.

“That was a nice recovery in class. Sounds like you
have forensics theory nailed.”

***

Saffi recognized the voice, but
was still surprised to see Jim Demore standing next to her table. When she
looked up, her first thought was that he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Deep
ocean blue eyes.
Oh Lord, what am I supposed to say? Something clever?
Be wise, Saffi.

“I embarrassed myself.”

 
Might as well tell the truth.

“I try not to do that too often,” she continued.

Saffi smiled weakly.

“My brain is out the window during half of these
classes,” Jim replied. His smile was warm and friendly.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.

Oh God, no, not at all.

“Please,” she said.

That one word was all Saffi could manage and
still retain some semblance of cool. Jim sat across from her.

“I’m Jim. Jim Demore. I guess the uniform tells
you who I work for.”

His eyes are SO blue.

“Saffi Stefansen.”

Saffi extended her palm.
This is so weird.

They shook hands. She was a little upset with
herself.
Good Lord, I feel...what was the word the wise old owl in Bambi
used...twitterpated...I feel twitterpated
.
This is silly. Be wise,
Saffi.

Jim released her hand.

He’s just a guy, OK? Yeah, but a tall,
handsome guy in uniform, with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Deep-Atlantic,
ocean-blue eyes.

Jim repeated her name.

“Saffi. That’s different. Is it short for
something?”

“No, it’s Danish. It means wisdom.”

But, dear God, right now I don’t feel so wise.

Kevin Williams waited in the main parking lot for more
than two hours, watching the co-eds come and go. Most of them were dressed for
the unseasonably warm weather in shorts or short skirts with various styles of
halter and tank tops. A handful wore the ubiquitous Florida sundress.
Flip-flops or sandals seemed to be the standard footwear. Watching the girls
with their bare legs and form-fitting outfits caused him to stiffen. He reached
down and adjusted himself. His hand stayed in his lap. He knew he would have to
do something soon to satisfy the cravings that were building up again. He knew
that the voices, as well as his body, would demand it. Demore came outside with
a pretty, girl-next-door blonde, walked with her to her car, and then made his
way to his cop car.

Kevin had followed Demore all the way to the
campus of the Southwest Florida Institute of Technology. He knew the campus
well, having completed the first two years toward a degree in computer science
and technology. He had dropped out when he decided he knew more about computers
than any of his less-enlightened instructors.

Although the architects had designed the parking
lot with bright, modern light emitting diode-style streetlights, Kevin managed
to find a spot under the shadow of a well-developed Red Crape Myrtle. The tree
shielded his rental car from some of the direct rays of the adjacent
streetlight, giving him a reasonable degree of cover from direct observation.
He was confident that the window tint of the car, combined with the darkness
produced by the Myrtle, would make him invisible to the outside.

Kevin had followed the big blond prick when
Demore pulled off the freeway, and watched as the semi almost took him out at
the bottom of the ramp. It would have been a spectacular crash. Without a
doubt, Demore had used up a lifetime’s worth of good luck with that narrow
escape. Still, Demore’s premature death would have robbed Kevin of the pleasure
of killing the prick himself. He hated Demore more than he could remember ever
hating anyone. Killing him personally would be a source of pure joy.

Kevin started his car as Demore pulled out of his
parking stall. He waited a few moments before following. Although Kevin lost
direct sight of the FHP Charger in the maze of Ft. Myers’ local streets, the
GPS unit kept him on track all the way to Demore’s house. He liked the feeling
the chase gave him. Like stalking prey.

Twenty minutes later, Kevin pulled up to a small,
cracker-style house. From its appearance, he figured the wood-framed building
had to be close to a hundred years old. Not that it looked bad. Even in the
dark, Kevin could tell that someone had lovingly restored the home’s exterior.
Regardless, the old, very dry, wood frame would burn fast. Kevin sat in the
dark, waiting for the opportune moment, the voice feeding him instructions.

“
Attach the device to the propane tank at the
back of the house
,” the voice growled. Kevin had never seen the house
before, but the voice told him exactly where everything was.

The way the voice guided him always amazed Kevin.
The voice, actually all of the voices, informed him, even encouraged him. The
voices were his friends. His guiding spirits. The voices, collectively, had
assured him that Kat Connors would appreciate what he was going to do tonight,
and that she would reward him in a special way. Kevin could only imagine what
that might be.

***

The small, window air conditioner
in the living room strained to keep up with the outside heat and humidity. In
spite of the heat, Jim didn’t bother to change. He plopped himself down into an
old, overstuffed chair. Even with his utility belt still on, the chair was
comfortable.

The worn upholstery actually added to the feel
that it somehow had always belonged exactly where it was. Linda had derisively
called it “cracker chic.”

Jim’s highway patrol salary did not leave him
with much once he paid all the bills, and, unfortunately, by the time Linda had
started making serious money modeling, their relationship had already become
strained. As a cop, he would never be rich, but at least he had the opportunity
to be somewhat comfortable. Of course, the way his luck went with women lately,
he might just end up comfortably alone.

Thick silence descended on the house. Lonely
silence. Graveyard silence. He even missed the noise of Linda’s yapping little
dog. He had christened him “rat mutt.” Linda hated that name. The dog was a
mixture of rat terrier and poodle, but he half-believed that “rat mutt” had
somehow caught a little ferret DNA. A royal pain in the rear, he would yap at
any new or strange noise he heard. Yet, he always seemed happy to see Jim.
How
had a beautiful woman like Linda ended up with such an ugly little dog?

Well, tonight nobody was around to bother him, or
keep him company, for that matter. He was not on call, and maybe he would be
able to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe even a full eight hours. No Linda. No
yappy, little rat mutt. No reason to stay up late trying to figure out a case
that still had too many pieces missing. Ten o’clock news, then pull the plug.

He retrieved the remote from the holder that hung
off one arm of the chair and pushed the power button. Cable news popped onto
the screen. Of course, Jefferson Briggs was the top story, again. The ticker
moving across the bottom of the television screen said that the investigation
into Jefferson Briggs’s death had stalled.
That’s a load of crap. I’m just
getting started.

He had made some progress, albeit slow as
molasses. Major Kant, his troop commander, had told him this morning that the
upper echelon had turned up the heat on the Brigg’s investigation. Her bosses
were arguing for a more senior investigator to take the lead. If he didn’t come
up with something solid soon, he might end up second chair. Or, worse, pulled
and assigned something less demanding.
No way in hell.

Jim absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his right
knee through his trousers. He had survived both Iraq and Afghanistan. He had
struggled to recover from the wounds that brought him back to the states. He
was thankful for his recovery, even if it would never be one hundred percent.
He had been in the hospital with guys that paid a far higher price than he did.

His total military service obligation had ended
the same month he completed the physical requalification for the return to FHP
duty. Although Jim loved the Corps, even the reserves, he decided not to
reenlist. He knew it was time to move on. He was now doing exactly what he
wanted to do. He was not about to let anything take that away.

He tried to listen to the talking head on the
television, but he could not keep his eyes open any longer. He let himself
drift away to that sweet place between awake and asleep. In the back of his
mind, he knew he should go to bed, but he ignored the little nag that lived in
his subconscious.

***

Kevin left the security of the
rental car and quietly opened the trunk. Inside was an IID, an improvised
incendiary device. With his technical knowledge and help from the voice, it had
been simple and quick to construct. Kevin found most of the information he
needed right on the Internet.

He used a special laptop for such unique research
projects that demanded absolute secrecy. How to clean up a crime scene. How to
dispose of a body. How to blow up an enemy.

He had created a false electronic signature for
the laptop that would be impossible for Homeland Security to trace. The stealth
search engine program he wrote covered his tracks completely.

He had hacked his first mainframe computer when
he was only twelve. It turned out to be a university computer. Searching poorly
encrypted files, Kevin had found some professor’s personal stash of hardcore
pornography. Nasty stuff. And the girls in the professor’s pictures were young.
Some even younger than Kevin. He had looked at the pictures with wonder. His
body’s reaction to what he saw had been a wonder too.

It had taken Kevin days to download the pictures
using his old dial-up modem, but it had been worth it. It did not take too long
for Kevin to accumulate a huge database of both technology files and dirty
pictures. Really, really dirty pictures. He downloaded the files, put them on
disks, and sold them to both his friends and to perverts lurking on some of the
Internet porn forums.

It had been profitable for a while. He played
this little game for a couple of years, until cops and activist groups such as
Perverted Justice began trolling the forums, looking to find and arrest the
purveyors of certain types of porn. A lot of guys got busted. He never did.

He closed the trunk, careful not to make a racket.
He looked around, and, seeing no one else on the street, made his way toward
Demore’s house via the darkest shadows he could find. It took thirty minutes of
slow, careful movement for Kevin to get into position. Tonight he would take
his skills to a new level.